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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937901">Crying Lightning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelfxll/pseuds/angelfxll'>angelfxll</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bisexual Female Character, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, It's all about the YEARNING, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Reader is an Unsub (Criminal Minds), Slow Build, They thrive on sexual tension too, not quite smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 03:39:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>160,034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937901</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelfxll/pseuds/angelfxll</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Hotch sees you - young, brazen and violent - it's at an old trailer and he's there with Gideon to question you about your father's whereabouts. Someone who the BAU have pegged as their unsub.<br/>The second time he sees you - they're back to question the family of an unsub's victim. And you're different: elegant, eloquent and all sharp edges now well-rounded and polished. And married to a billionaire.<br/>The third time it's inside the interrogation room, after they find the corpse of a second man looking eerily similar to your missing husband. </p><p>(yes they yearn! enemies to fuck buddies to enemies to lovers)<br/>so much murder! so much yearning!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaron Hotchner &amp; Reader, Aaron Hotchner &amp; You, Aaron Hotchner/Reader, Aaron Hotchner/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>245</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Deep End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey y'all! did i start another story without finishin the first fic? yes i did<br/>and hopefully somebody would want an actual enemies-to-friends-to-lovers story bcs i literally dreamt this shit it's insane. was just thinking how crazy would it be to see hotch in that kind of situation. And yes it takes place when Baby Hotch first appears in criminal minds bcs he still has hope for the future - but will probably pan out over the years, with a few leaps to the future.</p><p>I know I usually write long ass chapters but i didnt have time for this one but will elongate the next one hopefully to show what the main story is gonna be about. the premise will be her helpin Hotch in the future on a case (but!! let's see)</p><p>(and yes inspiration from Ozark bcs ive been watching a lot of it- and elementary too lmao)</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>TW: mention of sexual and physical abuse<br/>(and no this isnt inspired by Seaver lmao)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hotch has been in all parts of the country – from large cities with skyscrapers filled with smog and traffic, to the smallest of villages with a population of 80. Nothing surprises him anymore. Yet stepping out of the FBI-mandated SUV after turning off the car engine, he’s struck by the gloominess of this part of the globe he’d found himself in with Gideon. </p><p>He glances at the lake on his left, not far from the gravel road he’d driven them on. The surface of the water is a brilliant aquamarine, clean and inviting as it hits the green patched shore. A few boats line around, unfinished and dusty. And that’s about the nicest looking part of this place. Gideon lets out a whistle, as he pauses in front of the car. There are a few clouds up head that cast everything into a gloomy state – blue and grey at the same time. His eyes peer at last to the old trailer they’d arrived here for. It’s beaten down, a window aggressively duck taped shut for lack of a glass. And the white color it used to have is a meek yellow, from the rain and god-knows-what. There are a few lawn chairs up front all forming a circle around the remains of a campfire. And a small motorcycle that he doubts even works in the front steps leading to the door of the trailer.  </p><p>“You sure anybody is even here?” he hears himself ask and Gideon doesn’t deign him a look.  </p><p>“Doesn’t hurt to ask” he says at last and climbs the steps, hand tucked in the inside of his jacket, taking out his badge. Hotch stops below, brandishing his own credentials – a ritual they always did whenever they showed up at someone’s doorstep unannounced. </p><p>Gideon knocks and the door flies open from the other side. </p><p>Hotch’s hand is quick to his gun, unstrapping it at the sight before them.</p><p>A young woman that can't be older than Reid (or maybe even younger – he thinks) stands before them. <em>You</em> have short light hair arriving to your jawline, tucked behind your ears, and you're wearing jean shorts and a tank top - appropriate for the weather they're on - and a deep scowl on your face. Yet it's not your appearance that had made him reach for his gun.</p><p>You look innocuous, smaller in frame and size than the two men. But you're holding a big knife, directed pointedly at Gideon, eyes darting like a wild animal from him to Hotch. And the way you move – quick and jarring, knife bumping deftly from one hand to the other – signifies you know how to do more than just threaten them.</p><p>However, Gideon is not alarmed.</p><p>"We are federal agents" he says calmly, while Hotch's fingers linger over the gun, "From the FBI"</p><p>"Like I haven't heard that one before-" you snap, your eyebrows pulled angrily downwards, "y'all scumbags will say anything to get a girl to let you inside her house<em> alone. And we ain't getting that far.</em>"</p><p>Your words strike him more than your actions. And even though you're all spitfire, your voice does not hide your age.</p><p>"I'm Agent Gideon", he says, continuing like normal, "this is my badge-"</p><p>The woman finally looks at his hand as he raises the badge higher, and your hold on the knife softens. The knuckle white grip over it gone in a flash.</p><p>"Behind me is Agent Hotchner" Gideon cocks his head to the side but your eyes don't break the staring you have over the man in front, "we are here to ask you a few questions"</p><p>You move deftly the knife, sliding it through your fingers before lowering it down to your side.</p><p>"And we are gentlemen" Gideon says, and you nod reluctantly, "May we come in?"</p><p>You step to the side, motioning for them inside. You wait by the door as Gideon steps first, and Hotch follows silently, his eyes glued to the hand at your side still holding the knife.</p><p>He stops by the door as you close it, looking at him for the first time.</p><p>The height difference gets him first – you're shorter than Haley, your head arriving just at his collarbones. He can't help but compare you two and he doesn't even know why the thought occurs to him. You can't be more different from her. And maybe that is why – because you're such a stark contrast.</p><p>You don't break the eye contact, and you're not intimidated by either of them – not by Gideon's straightforwardness or lack of a tact, or by his own stature and height, all clad in a suit that usually makes civilians shy away. Your eyes study his face unabashedly, then they drop to his suit, and his hands, noticing the steady hover over the gun. You hold up the knife in your hand, 3 fingers in the air as if to say -<em> I'm letting go first. </em>And as you take a step back, you drop the knife with a thud over the counter behind. And he does the same, strapping back the gun holster.</p><p>Gideon's further into the trailer, to an area that can be designated as a living room. It has only a sofa and a couch, materials torn but somehow still at a good condition. He stops in the middle, taking in the open bag of chips over the couch, and the empty liquor bottles at its feet. Hotch knows Gideon is fast in his deductions – so he waits for his cue.</p><p>"Can I get you<em> gentlemen </em>anything?" you say in a mock tone, opening the fridge with ease, as if they're simply friends and this was a normal occurrence.</p><p>"No, thank you" Gideon responds for the two of them.</p><p>"Suit yourselves" you say, taking out a beer bottle, and Hotch notes quickly that the fridge is almost empty too, filled only with mere essentials.</p><p>You walk through the space and plop onto the couch, tucking a foot underneath you. They both watch you take another beer bottle and holding the necks of the bottles together in two fingers, you kick the heel of your foot to the base. The tap of the bottle falls to the ground.</p><p>"How old are you?" Gideon asks as you take a sip.</p><p>"Old enough to drink"  you reply fast. "You?"</p><p>Gideon sits down on the sofa, and Hotch has to force his feet to move, to plant himself down as well.</p><p>"Old enough to be your father" Gideon replies and your scowl doesn't dissipate.</p><p>"Sorry about before" you start, "there's been a lot of bullshit going on. And girls are disappearing <em>fucking</em> fast around here."</p><p>Your foul mouth is another thing that strikes Hotch.</p><p>"You watch the news?" Gideon asks, addressing the fact you have no tv in the room, or radio as far as they can both see.</p><p>"I do when I'm at work" you say.</p><p>"And what do you do?"</p><p>"I work at a strip club, as a manager."</p><p>"<em>Manager</em>?" Gideon is not surprised at that but Hotch is, not when you look so young.</p><p>"In these parts, agents" you say leaning forward, "You're either a stripper, a dealer, or a thief – and I'm not agile to be any of those yet. So, manager it is"</p><p>Hotch lingers on the word<em> yet. </em>You lean back on the couch.</p><p>"And being in a high position helps keep the girls safe from fucktards. As I said, men are not <em>gentlemen </em>here" Your gaze halts on Hotch, scrutinizing him again. You keep mocking Gideon's words.</p><p>"So, you've heard of the recent break-ins." Gideon says, "It's why we are here. We are with the BAU – Behavioral Analysis Unit. We catch guys like him – who commit violent crimes against women and more. We profile them and throw them in prison where they belong. We are doing rounds in the neighborhood asking people what they've seen. We wanted to ask if you've noted anything strange"</p><p>"Define strange" you reply, digesting the information quickly.</p><p>"Men kidnapping girls. Young and promising and <em>your age</em>" he says, and your scowl grows deeper, "Men being violent in public, or stalking them in secrecy"</p><p>"Why are you really here?" you ask, changing your posture over the couch, both feet planted on the ground, elbows over your knees. Hotch notices you haven't drunk anymore from the beer in your hands – you'd meant to use it only as an accessory, to appear aloof and calm.</p><p>"Your father" Gideon says then, ending niceties at once, "Davis Finch"</p><p>"What about him?"</p><p>"He was last seen outside Marlene Beau's house Thursday night before her body was recuperated from the lake yesterday morning"</p><p>Garcia had led them to your domicile upon gathering information that you knew Marlene Beau, had been in the same public school as her. And they'd found your father matching the profile to perfection. They'd found they'd hit the jackpot quickly for this case, solely from that connection.</p><p>"I don't know my father's schedule"</p><p>Your answers are rehearsed, and <em>of course</em> they are – he'd been imprisoned for most of your teenage years from what Garcia had gathered from him. Multiple counts of thefts, robberies, and more than a few violent bar brawls. The man had been in and out of prison more than he'd probably been a father to you. And the police had definitely questioned you more than you'd been in school.</p><p>"But he's not here" Gideon says.</p><p>"He doesn't live with me" you say through gritted teeth and that's the only emotion you've shown insofar that's not carefully orchestrated, "he can do whatever the fuck he wants. He ain't my problem anymore."</p><p>"But those girls should be" Gideon says, and the guilt trip he causes you makes your face break into shock, "if you saw any of them one would think they're almost you-"</p><p>"Shut up" you cut him off, dropping the beer on the ground, liquid pouring over the stained floor.</p><p>But Gideon continues unfazed, "-petite frame, looking like good schoolgirls, and hair not past their collarbones, eyes big and full of hope just like yours-"</p><p>You stand up at once, fists balled at your sides.</p><p>"Shut the <em>fuck </em>up"</p><p>Gideon stands too, "I know you believe he has nothing to do with this, but he fits our profile. If you tell us all you know about him, we can catch him before he rapes and kills someone else."</p><p>You exhale loudly through your nose, anger making your entire body shake.</p><p>"Or <em>you</em>" Gideon says then and that causes the riptide.</p><p>"Get the fuck out of my house!" You point a hand towards the door, spitting the words out. Instead, Gideon holds out a business card, and leaves it over the arm of the couch. You take a step forward ready to snap again, arms rising up, but Hotch lurches, blocking you from Gideon.</p><p>He hadn't known what to expect you to do to be fair – <em>fistfight Gideon? Throw your hands around his throat? What exactly? </em>But he knows not to underestimate you. His hand captures your wrist twisting it sharply, lowering your arm to your stomach.</p><p>But you're quick as well, your other hand latching onto the tie around his neck, pulling it down until he's pressed flush against you – his body moving on automatic so you don't hurt him. You've lowered him down to your level, gaze unwavering, warm breath fanning over his lips and chin.</p><p>"Don't you <em>fucking</em> dare touch me again" you spit in his face, and his grip on your wrist tightens, causing a small whimper to escape your mouth – making his stomach knot violently. His free hand circles your hand over his tie, larger and stronger managing to break out from the hold. You step back but don't excuse yourself and neither does he.</p><p>"Call us" Gideon simply says, now next to the door, choosing to ignore the moment that's passed between the two of you. "It's never too late"</p><p>He opens the door himself and Hotch trails behind without a word. They're halfway to the car, when you call back to them.</p><p>"Agent Hotchner" he stops, turning around. You chuck an object at him. He raises his hand to catch it, on instinct – his wallet. He looks shocked at the object in his hands and at you, standing leaning over the doorway, grinning.</p><p>"Congrats on the baby." you say with a smile – such a shocking change to the frown they'd seen all this time.</p><p>You'd gone through his wallet, the pictures of Haley he kept tucked inside, their small family photo, and even the many photos he'd snapped of Jack since he was born just five months ago. He opens the wallet checking that nothing is missing as he hears you laugh at him.</p><p>"I'm not going to steal from a federal agent" you say, shaking her head, "I'm a <em>gentle woman</em> too"</p><p>You shoot him a wink, and he struggles with the car keys in his hand, wanting to leave this place at once. Gideon lets out a huff at that, watching you with a look in his eyes as if you're a child who's disappointed him deeply.</p><p>Once they're out into an asphalted road he voices his thoughts aloud to Gideon.</p><p>"She's going to be like her father" he says and Gideon scoffs.</p><p>"I don't think so" he says. Hotch glances at him shocked – <em>had he not seen what Hotch had?</em>  Yielding a cold weapon at both of them was literally their first impression of you. Then your house reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, and even your job.</p><p>Let alone the fact that you were raised without a parent around, your mother having passed away when you were still a small child – this information fed to them by Garcia.</p><p>"I think she's nothing like him."</p><p>"You know the facts-" he says, and he doesn't know why he insists now.</p><p>"I do" Gideon interrupts him before he starts sprouting facts like Dr. Spencer Reid, turning to look at him, "And I know not <em>everyone </em>who had a violent childhood turns into a serial killer"</p><p>Hotch feels small with the implication of his words, because Gideon knows him <em>too well</em>.</p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You don’t know why you decided to head into the police precinct instead of calling. Obviously, it was because you hadn’t had the chance to pay off your cellphone and the last one was chucked to the bottom of the lake. An altercation after your boss had delayed your last paycheck again.</p><p>You’d yelled at him on the phone and he’d been too drunk and lost track of days as always. Of course, that was better than having someone not even pick up when being called – as was the last job at the late-night diner. The police officers greet you as you walk in, shouting <em>how are </em><em>yous</em>and <em>can I help with anything – </em>a mixture of being in and out since forever, and the new job at the strip club.</p><p>Felt weird to hold power over such an authority now, and they were nicer, a silent agreement so you wouldn’t blabber to their wives and girlfriends over how often they visited the club. You note the suits from a mile way – other federal agents you assume from the BA-<em> something.  </em>All men too – one tall and all long limbs and perched glasses on his nose, the other the complete opposite, muscled and unsmiling.</p><p>His gaze makes you halt and it’s probably because dressed as you are, you stand out like a sore thumb. The old man you’d seen last time – Agent Gideon – walks out from the room at his right. You’d memorized his name that night after they’d both left. Memorized his phone number as well, as you’d burned the paper, erasing every trace of federal agents having been in your home. Knowing your father would sniff that out like a wild boar. </p><p>Agent Gideon turns to the object of their staring, smiling a little once he sees you. He waits until you approach him, and he beams at you like a grandfather would – not that you’d ever had the luck of having one, but you’d seen the way your friends’ families behaved. Though you find this man eerie and strange.</p><p>“I want to talk” you say.  </p><p>“Good” he replies just as short. </p><p>Your attention falters as you sense two other people leaving the room he was in. The first is a woman, a smudge taller than you, short hair and tight V-neck and jeans, gun holstered at the side of her torso. </p><p>“Thought this was a boy’s club” you say to nobody in particular and she crosses her arms.  </p><p>Behind her is the other man who’d been inside your house, and the only man who’d laid hands on you and gotten out unscathed – Agent Hotchner. At first glance you’d concluded he was like the other police officers around – with his tie too tight, suit, shoes and posture polished.</p><p>Most probably a loyal family man and reeking of cologne behind closed doors – only to show up at strip clubs or hiding expertly another dark lie just beneath the surface. You’d noticed the way his eyes had trailed over your figure and lingered to your bare thighs – all men did it. But his focus hadn’t been on you but on the knife you had been holding onto, tip pressed to naked skin as they’d walked inside your living quarters. </p><p>You hadn’t given him the benefit of the doubt then. Not even when he’d clutched your wrist, protecting his superior from your outburst. And you hadn’t even been swayed once your expert fingers had found his wallet, curious over the life he led. However, you’d handed it back to him, noticing nothing special apart from the same old: perfect beautiful wife with blonde hair, and a small little infant boy in his photos. No juicy secret.<em> Yet. </em> </p><p><em> “Agent </em><em>Hotchner</em><em>”  </em>you greet and his face turns stern as if pressed by a button. </p><p>“I will question her in the interrogation room” Agent Gideon says to the others, yet your eyes linger on Agent Hotchner, wanting to make him uncomfortable with your staring. It doesn’t work. </p><p>Having been accustomed to the building layout over the years you don’t wait for a cue but lead the way to the interrogation room, sitting down in one of the chairs. Gideon is quick behind you, closing the door once he walks inside. </p><p>“You didn’t call for three days” he says, his voice a reprimand, but more accusatory than anything else. It works at making you feel guiltier.  </p><p>“I bought a radio” you say, your voice foreign to your own ears, “I heard that two other women were found just -”  </p><p>And you can’t say it, because it had been at the same petrol station your father had committed his first theft, and worked – this being a town where nobody fussed over a clean record before hiring. </p><p>“Don’t waste my time” he says, “do you have anything useful or not?” </p><p>You flinch at his words, and words tumble out of your mouth – painful and draining. You tell him everything from the beginning. How you don’t remember much from your childhood apart from the flighty nature of your father, not even in the house.</p><p>And when he was, he always stunk distinctly of liquor and drugs. The bruises that never disappeared over your mother’s face. And not having a single memory of her without it being tainted by <em>him. </em>Then how even though in prison and hating everything about him, you still wanted him to feel proud over your life choices. Over not being like him, and having an actual job and life, money not hiding under the mattress anymore, but coming from a bank account. </p><p>And then when he’d been let out a week ago, showing up at your doorstep in the middle of the night already boozed up and wobbling. How he’d tried to hit you when you’d refused to let him inside. How you’d screamed at him that you weren’t his daughter anymore. How he’d glared – expression unreadable, then turned and disappeared without a trace.</p><p>Two days after, the bodies of young women started appearing across town. Gideon mumbles something about a trigger and he pushes a pen and paper to your hands, convincing you to write down every single place he frequents. You do so: every single club, dinner, or coke den you can think of – even the home addresses of his closest friends. </p><p>When you’re done, you’re ushered outside, gentle hands on you sitting you down over a crooked chair. The woman from before – the only female agent, you assume – hands you a large cup of coffee. Even though her grip is soft, her expression is fierce. She says her name is Elle and tells you, strong conviction in her voice, that you did the right thing.</p><p>Then, the men get out, shouting orders, and she leaves you. It’s weirdly encouraging to watch her march confidently through the room, and even though you hadn’t trusted the BAU (Gideon had repeated the acronym again in the interrogation room), you do now, knowing she’s definitely thrown into prison awfully violent men.  </p><p>You hadn’t wanted to leave the precinct, wanting to get a confirmation first. Another woman is by you – blonde, smaller and kinder voice. The doors burst open and you spring to your feet. Your father’s voice is jarring to your ears – screaming profanities at everyone he looks at – but he never claims he’s innocent. Agent Hotchner is behind him, pushing him forcefully forwards, unfazed and strong, even though your father is a large, wide-framed man.</p><p>Two police officers at his side watch him, wanting to help but afraid to make a first move. There's a good distance between the two of you – yet when his eyes find yours you retreat, back bumping harshly against the table behind you. </p><p>“Did you do this?” He yells, and he pushes through, dragging Agent Hotchner behind him, ”Did you talk to the Feds you fucking <em>bitch?” </em>  </p><p>You scour backwards, body cold and words dying in your tongue.  </p><p>“You<em> ungrateful whor-”  </em> </p><p>Agent Hotchner kicks a foot to his knees, making him whine in pain, and stumble forward, and the other agent – muscled and large – grabs your father from the other side. They both haul him inside the interrogation room, screams continuing but incomprehensible to your ears. </p><p>The only thing you hear is Agent Hotchner’s stern voice, seeming to echo through the precinct, raucous too - </p><p>“Sit down and shut up” </p><p>They find one other body after that – five in total since he’d been let out of prison, only 2 weeks ago. He’s sent to prison for life this time, no chance of parole. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>Halfway across the country, while looking for another serial murderer, Hotch and Gideon ring the bell of a large five-stories high villa with a large pool in the back. The neighborhood is high-class, inhabitants rich and family-centric. Garcia had stated on the plane over that quite a few businessmen and A-list celebrities lived here, hiding from paparazzi and unwanted attention. Then she’d joked that it had been her dream too – to move here.  </p><p>He knocks on the door, continuing that same procedure Gideon had first delegated to Morgan and Prentiss but decided otherwise when another body dropped just a few houses down the block. They'd exchanged responsibilities from the proximity of location. They’d went to the crime scene, and Hotch and Gideon were now visiting the family of the first victim.  </p><p>There’s small laugh behind the doors, then it opens. </p><p>“Maria -” the woman in front of them says, head turned back, dark locks cascading over her shoulders, talking to an older woman far behind her in a maid’s costume, “please take a rest, you’ve been cooking for us all day today. After all you’ve been through you shouldn’t even be here-” </p><p>Gideon clears his throat and she turns. </p><p>All air leaves Hotch’s lungs once their eyes meet. Dressed in a tight velvet bodycon dress, hair long and this time midnight black – <em>you </em>stand before them both. And he can’t help but recognize you, not when he’d argued with Gideon that day after driving back from your house, and then witnessing your interrogation. But now – seeing you standing in a wildly different environment and wrapped up in expensive clothes, he’s speechless for the first time in his life. Your eyes are wide too, recognizing both Hotch and Gideon in a second. </p><p>- </p><p>“Well -” Gideon breaks the silence first, “at least we don’t need to introduce ourselves.” </p><p>He doesn’t wait for you to invite them in, but you sidestep, opening the door wider. You're shy, as Agent Hotchner’s eyes linger on your dress, brazen.  </p><p>“It’s been a year no?” Gideon asks, taking in the large hallway lined with family portraits. He walks into the living room, not waiting for any social cues, and his eyes are caught at the large painting sitting over the fireplace. Hotch stares at it too. </p><p>You’re sitting on a large couch, a man on your side, his arm lovingly placed over yours, both dressed beautifully – him in a black tuxedo, and you in a long draping white dress, with a plunging neckline – hair black. </p><p>“Congrats on the wedding” </p><p>Gideon’s expression is accusatory and you know fate has played you like a fiddle. What are the chances they show up at your door twice? They must be thinking it’s not a chance though – not by the way Agent Hotchner’s eyes trace every single furniture and photo, as he walks around. </p><p>“I’ve changed my name” you say unprompted, voice a whisper because you don’t want Maria to know about your past.<em> Nobody will. </em> “I moved out once I saved enough money – that town called me a snitch even though I helped catch a murderer.” </p><p>They note your swift change in language as well – polite, restrained and no swear words. </p><p>“And you became rich and got married at once?”  </p><p>“Maybe it was karma” you say, “get a lousy childhood and father, and you win the lottery and a good husband” </p><p>“Is that what happened -” Agent Hotchner speaks this time, stopping in front of a photo of you and your husband when you’d first met – at a concert you’d been dragged to against your will, “you won the lottery?” </p><p>“No” you say, crossing your arms over your chest, “I’m a businesswoman” </p><p>“You’ve opened a chain of strip clubs?” Agent Hotchner asks, frowning.  </p><p>“Funny” you say with a straight face, “I’m good at coming up with ideas – my husband’s family foundation invested in it and I became rich”. </p><p>You feel on edge but not from their presence but for the fact you don’t know when he’ll be back and <em>well</em> – he didn’t know about all of your past either.  </p><p>“Look, I’ve been quiet all this time – I don’t know what you think I’ve done but I’m nothing like my fa-” </p><p>“A woman was found murdered here two months ago-” Gideon interrupts, and you halt.  </p><p>“Right” you say, feeling exhausted from everything. Seeing them rehashes memories from a year ago – of your father admitting he was a serial killer. “The house was robbed at midnight, one of the maids died and they stole silverware. We bought it and moved in last month and I have an alibi” </p><p>You pause. This had been a while ago, forgotten already, as nothing too important had been robbed. The house hadn’t even been yours a month ago – buying the estate had been fast and a necessity. The maid had been beaten outside in the yard, and they’d thought she was going to live, but suddenly the next day she’d passed away.</p><p>But it was only a robbery – that's what the police had said. And you’d only increased security and a few guards. Not a big deal, as this always happened around here. But you know the BAU doesn’t show up unless it is a <em>series</em> of crimes. </p><p>“Why are you here?” you ask meekly. </p><p>“We believe it’s a serial killer” Agent Gideon says. </p><p>- </p><p>Hotch studies your body language at the news – you remains still, not any exaggerated shock or utter calmness in your features to signify you're acting. Yet he can’t help but feel that you <em>must have  </em> something to do with it – or you are <em>simply,</em> the unluckiest person in the world. A question bubbles around in his brain, tearing his gaze away from the golden ring on your left hand. <em>A murder happens in the house and you decide to move in?  </em>Any other person wouldn’t have done so – scoured away scared. But you’d stayed.  </p><p>Then the silence that has fallen is shattered as a baby’s cries fill the space around them.<em> You're a murderer and a mother too? </em>- things had definitely changed quickly for you, a complete 180 degrees turn.  </p><p>"Let's catch up then" you say, sitting down on a couch that's too royal in contrast to where he'd first seen you. Your posture is ramrod straight, hands neatly folded over your lap, and he notices the high heels as well - it's like he's looking at a whole different person. You remain unfazed from the baby's cries.</p><p>"I guess there's a lot you want to know."</p><p><em> ----- </em> </p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Punisher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The second meeting with the BAU - and possibly a third.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mention of sexual assault</p><p>- yes im back with another chapter lol! thnx for the feedback yall i appreaciate it a lot</p><p>also i do not own any of these characters obviously and the main character is supposedly a mix of all kinds of movies/books ive read lol<br/>the only thing i bring that's personal to me is the fact that she's bi (bcs i wanted that to be sth normal and not a big reveal)<br/>enjoy this one!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“She’s Maria’s child” you let out at their surprised faces. Though any other person wouldn’t have read through the serious facade they have plastered on. </p><p>“My maid” you clarify and Agent Hotchner nods.  </p><p>“I met my husband two months after my father was imprisoned” you start, once they both settle on the sofa, postures the same – elbows over knees. “I moved around a lot before I arrived in Washington, and then I had this idea over an app that protects women walking alone at night – of course I know nothing about computers or apps.” You wave a hand around - “but my husband’s family foundation is number one in the digital world – so they invested in me and here I am” </p><p>That’s the briefest description you’ve had to do.  </p><p>“Why did you decide to stay in this house?” Gideon asks, “You hear someone get murdered and the place is robbed – why stay? You must know the house is probable to be hit a second time since they’ve learned the layout of the building.” </p><p>He’s not wrong – it's what your husband had said as well. His family too – begging you both to not plant roots in a place that was already haunted. But haunted was <em>all</em> you knew. At least this place had become so before you’d stepped inside. You’d ceased becoming a bad omen at last. </p><p>“We have extra security, cameras on every corner of this place” you point at the fireplace on their side. Gideon stands up, nearing the portrait. He leans down, fingers pressed over a small corner of the golden frame – noticing the small camera pointing towards him, almost invisible. </p><p>“And we’re not home often, unfortunately. He’s busy with his own work and I, with mine. If we get robbed, we have insurance” </p><p>“You’re not worried about the personnel's lives?” Gideon asks, straightening his posture.  </p><p>“They’re trained to shoot” you rebut, “should they choose to” </p><p>Agent Hotchner’s eyebrows go up in surprise. </p><p>“I’m joking” you say, chuckling at his reaction, “if we’re not here, they’re not here.” </p><p>“Does your husband know about the cameras?” Gideon asks, a small smile on his lips as he watches you.</p><p>It’s funny how he always catches things you’d expertly managed to hide from others. </p><p>“Not about all of them” you admit. </p><p>“You don’t trust men” he states, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I don’t blame you, but that’s not a way to live your life” </p><p>“What can I say?” you ask, “I’d rather know ahead this time if there’s a serial killer in my family” </p><p>Gideon lets out a huff at that – skeptical but understanding. </p><p>“How do you do it then?” you ask, watching as he settles back down next to Agent Hotchner, “You see all kinds of horrors – how do you go back to the people closest to you and not wonder? How do you go back to your wife and child and live with what you’ve seen?” </p><p>He chooses not to answer that rhetorical question, but looks out instead from the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden. You know he’s probably imagining the body of the woman as the police had said that’s where the struggle had happened. </p><p>“I assume you’re here for Maria. She is her sister” you say then, “She was questioned by the police too but I will call her” </p><p>Agent Hotchner nods at that, standing up as you do. </p><p>You lead them outside, to the patio that your husband had insisted on remodeling after moving in – an attempt to make you forget what your house bared witness to. You clarify so, and they share a silent look with another, so quick you almost miss it.</p><p>Then Maria takes over, and you leave them alone for privacy. You hover around, studying Gideon as he walks over the grass, towards the lemon tree, feeling around the tree stump. You watch Agent Hotchner as his palms touch the fresh tiles, index finger pressing to the white grout. </p><p>“M’am” Maria calls, making you jump. She steps inside, closing the glass door behind her, leaving the agents to continue their analyses alone, “I can make lunch?” </p><p>“Maria, please don’t call me that” you turn to her, “and take the rest of the day off, your niece is begging you to”  </p><p>As if on cue, the baby starts crying again and she starts profusely excusing herself – over the fuss of the newborn; being stuck to babysit her sister’s child now that she’s gone; and for not being around as often as she has to. You wave a hand at her - </p><p>“Please,” you say gentler, “if you don’t want to go home, that’s okay too. Just don’t pay attention to me but your niece instead.”</p><p>You approach her, and her worry and anxiety get to you fast. You take her hands in yours and give her a sympathetic smile. </p><p>“In fact,” you start as you hear the door open, “why don’t I make us something to eat? I’m sure the smell of food will get her to calm down a bit and feel at home” </p><p>Her smile is small but it’s enough for you to know she’s calmer. You let her go, watching as she climbs up the stairs to her room. </p><p>“That’s noble of you” Agent Hotchner says, and you turn swiftly, “thought she was your maid and not vice versa” </p><p>“She’s a person” you state, glaring at him. The last time you’d seen him he’d bruised your right wrist, red prints of his fingertips gone only after some days – thinking you were going to attack Gideon.  </p><p>“Men aren’t?” he asks – you know he does so only to get a rise out of you.  </p><p>“How’s your wife, Agent Hotchner?” you ask instead, entertained at how fast the quiet self-assuredness wipes off his face, “is she happy with you spending time travelling while she tends to an infant alone?” </p><p>His eyebrows furrow deeper, eyes narrowing. </p><p>“That’s not how marriage works, right? I know it to be differently-” your fingers go instinctively to your wedding ring, twisting it around, remembering fondly the promises your husband had said to you aloud in front of others. </p><p>“I think-” you say and you take a step forward, closing in the distance. You don’t fail to notice how his hands at his sides straighten, palms opening up. </p><p>“I think it’s supposed to be an agreement between two people who love each other, who share responsibilities in an equal amount -” A finger and a thumb are pressed together at his side, rubbing against each other – <em>a nervous tick, maybe, some kind of tell?</em> “Yet, she’s raising your child alone in a big house.” </p><p>You step into his personal bubble, knowing now how to efficiently press his buttons. </p><p>“I feel for that woman” you mutter, “and for any woman that stumbles into your life, Agent Hotchner” </p><p>The closeness gets him more pressed – scoffing at your words, his left-hand clenching and unclenching over nothing. You want him to snap, only so you can witness it and be satisfied at getting the confirmation that he’s just like the others – anger and rage spilling out of his body with no restraint. Men like him always did it, sooner or later. Men who appeared poised, polished and mature – you knew so from experience. </p><p>“Hotch-” Gideon calls out, breaking the stare-down that has taken place as minutes stretch by in silence. He tears his eyes off yours, turning to his superior instead. <em>Hotch? </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>I think I found something – call that tech girl, would you?” </p><p>He responds in a sharp nod, walking away from you both and outside the house. Gideon speaks once he’s out of earshot. </p><p>“He won’t do what you expect him to” </p><p>You glare at him – <em>how had he known? </em> </p><p>“He's a good man” he says matter-of-factly. </p><p>“With all due respect, Agent Gideon, <em>all men are the same.</em>” </p><p>-- </p><p>And it had turned to be true, many months later, when one night at 3am, thirsty and sleepy, you'd wobbled down the stairs barefoot. You’d thought nothing of the quiet cries, the sharp inhales and exhales of breath as your feet met the ground floor. Not even of the two figures in the dark – one standing and the other on the ground.</p><p>Only when you opened the fridge – white light uncovering the two figures as your husband and Maria – did realization hit you. And you’d reacted without thinking, hand reaching for the knife over the table, familiar in your hold as you’d struck him. You’d watched his body fall to the ground; the relief in Maria’s teary eyes – a silent immediate agreement occurring only through eye contact. </p><p>--- </p><p>Gideon had called you the day after they’d visited your villa – informing you that the robber-and-murderer had been caught. The visit to the house and Maria’s information had given them both a good nudge forwards, completing their “profile” as he’d said. You’d appreciated his call, although the camera surveillance never stopped. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch’s not surprised this time when he sees you walk into the police department, hair back to its natural color, grown out even longer in the year-and-a-half that has passed. After the second meeting he’d told Garcia to set up an alert for your name – both names – if it appeared on the news. At first it was nothing but awards upon awards, interviews over your quick rise to success, and philanthropist ways.</p><p>Then Garcia had found out 7 months late that your husband had been declared missing (alerted by the same surname in the news). He’d watched the news as you appeared on the videos Garcia had forwarded him – standing in front of a dozen camera crews, dressed in mourning, pleading for him to come back, crocodile tears in your eyes.</p><p>He knew the facts – spouses were often the primary suspect. And he knew your backstory, your life, and your deep-rooted mistrust over the men in your life. You’d admitted so last time through the quiet surveilling of the husband in that dollhouse. Then the news had sharply switched headlines, fueled by the accusations of his family – turning you into a villain, a gold digger, and even more creative names. That’s how you’d been thrown to prison for 3 months, sentenced for embezzlement in the company you funded with his family’s money.  </p><p>He watches you now, ever-confident even after prison, chin up and posture perfect. You flash a smile at a young male officer, and he blushes, struck by your appearance and elegance. Hotch had expected you to revert back to your old ways – shouting swear words like a weathered sailor, grunting at every man looking your way.</p><p>You’re all soft and quiet as the officer uncuffs you. He’s rambling about something and Hotch sees your fingers brush lightly over his knuckles, saying something sweet to him. Whatever it is, it works because he opens the door for you, disappearing inside before quickly walking out. </p><p><em> Rookie, </em>Hotch scoffs,<em> leaving a suspect unguarded inside an interrogation room. </em>He doesn’t let you get too comfortable but steps inside.  </p><p>You’re sitting over the chair, fingers rubbing the insides of your wrists absent-mindedly, not paying attention to anything else but the marks the cuffs have left on your skin. He shuts the door with a thud, expecting you to startle – an efficient way to intimidate a suspect. It doesn’t work for you as you only cast a glance his way, then roll your eyes. <em>Out of all the people in the world </em>– he almost hears you think. </p><p>“Guess the third time is the charm. Though, we have to stop meeting this way” you say, voice low and honey sweet –  the same you’d used to charm the rookie, “if you just want to get me alone, you can always just call me”  </p><p>He can see why it works with younger men – that, together with the way you bat your long eyelashes – it's almost like an actress confessing her love and lust at the end of a movie. </p><p>-- </p><p>You lean both elbows over the table, resting your face over your knuckles, throwing him your best innocent smile. It’s always the most efficient at bringing you results – it made your high cheekbones protrude even more, dimples at the sides of your small smile carve deeper, and the position is <em>submissive</em>.</p><p>That’s the thing – over the years you’d found acting gentle and naïve with and around men got you what you wanted faster, as opposed to the violence you’d grown accustomed to. Agent Hotchner looks unfazed, though you feel his eyes linger over the hair on your shoulders – back to a familiar color. You reach for it unconsciously. </p><p>“Where’s Gideon?” you ask, switching to undermining him, since the first act didn’t work. “I was giddy to be here just to see him” </p><p>He throws a folder over the table in between, taking a seat before you. </p><p>“He quit” he says flatly. </p><p>You don’t hide the genuine surprise on your face even though he will scrutinize you.<em> Is this his way to get you to react – by lying? </em> </p><p>“He quit” you repeat, more so to yourself than to him. </p><p>“Yes” he says, “a year ago – few months after the robbery-homicide case.” </p><p>His expression is unfaltering, unchanged – and it convinces you that he’s telling the truth. Your eyes peruse his facial features. He looks more mature even though it’s been a bit more than a year after you’d last seen him.</p><p>The circles under his eyes are deeper, sinking on his face like pits of blue and purple, and there’s more horizontal lines over his forehead – more vertical ones in the span between his dark eyebrows too. He looks exhausted and thinner –<em>a price to pay over Gideon’s departure? The toll of the job growing exponentially through the years? </em> You switch gears once again, deciding to break the silence before he does. </p><p>“So, who’s the daddy of the BAU, now?” you ask, dropping your arms over the table, leaning in closer, letting the moment dissipate in the air with no trace, “Are you the new <em>daddy </em>?” </p><p>He scoffs, shaking his head – the sexy voice doesn’t work on him either, <em>apparently</em>.  </p><p>“I’m the unit chief” he confirms. And then you remember what to do to push his buttons. </p><p>“Ah, that’s right” you exhale, “you’re literally <em>a  </em>dad. How’s the baby?” </p><p>It works immediately – gaze turning into a glare. </p><p>“Wait, he’s not a baby anymore. He’s a toddler. What’s it been – <em>three, four </em>years? How old is he now?” </p><p>“Three” he says, though you’d not expected him to answer. </p><p>“And how’s the wifey?” You ask, leaning closer, palms stretched over the table, bringing your body up to narrow the distance. That worked too – unwanted close proximity irked him to the core. You drop your voice to a sultry tone, “Are you still keeping her satisfied – in bed and <em>at home</em>?” </p><p>His reaction is visceral – he pushes himself away and off the chair, standing up at once. </p><p>“You don’t ask the questions here – <em>I do</em>!” His baritone voice is loud and threatening – that same tone you vaguely remember he’d used on your father.  </p><p>You raise your hands up, letting out a laugh – half in satisfaction over riling him up, half in discomfort. The latter you couldn’t help – men yelling made you freeze. It was your body’s way of readying you for danger. </p><p>“Fine” you exhale, willing your emotions at bay, “if you want to keep this boring act, please, go ahead.” </p><p>“Where were you Monday the 13th, at 3am?” </p><p>You look at him like he’s nuts –<em>this</em>Monday? </p><p>“At home” you say, “my<em> own</em> home” </p><p>“Where’s that?” he asks, and you lean back on your chair, keeping your palms over the table.</p><p>You knew all about body language – hands crossed means secrecy, wanting privacy, and hands visible at all times meant you weren’t flighty. Like he wants you to act. You recite the address at him, and he nods, looking at the mirror behind him. That’s got to be some sort of signal to whoever’s behind it – to look you up or check your alibi. Probably both, simultaneously. </p><p>“You have someone to vouch for you?” </p><p>“I do” you say “I have two roommates. Getting sent to prison kind of does that for you – forces you out of an upscale villa and living back with strangers” </p><p>“You’re not poor” he simply states, and you know he’d get his hands to your personal information either way. It was a given.</p><p>“Your bank accounts say so at least – you could have paid the fine for the sentence as well, left no indent in your fortune. You could have easily evaded prison too.” </p><p>And you could have done so – it was definitely a thought that had crossed your mind. But you hadn’t done it. </p><p>“I wanted to build character?” you offer up, shrugging like you’re naïve. “Prison does that to you – hardens you more. Prepares you for what’s outside.” </p><p> He doesn’t believe a word you say – it's just a stupid play he lets you rehearse to buy time for <em>something. </em>You read through it, and you play along too. </p><p>“<em>And </em> ” you say, raising an index finger, “sometimes you build lifelong friendships and <em>more</em> with <em>interesting </em>women” </p><p>He scoffs again, his impatience gradually growing at your filler words. </p><p>“You wouldn’t believe how much you learn from women – and if you’re wondering, the male guards are <em>scumbags</em> as well” </p><p>There’s a hint of something flashing across his eyes at <em>scumbags, </em>a sliver of recognition. It transports you back to your old trailer.  </p><p>“They are?” he says then, suddenly interested in what you have to say, “tell me, what did they do?” </p><p>You grit your teeth together, squeezing your mouth shut – he's found a way to press your buttons as well. Hotch 1, you 1 – it’s a fair game. </p><p>“Did they <em>touch </em>the female inmates?” he asks, voice loud, leaning forward, making you retreat. “Did they touch <em>you</em>?” </p><p>“Shut the <em>fuck </em>up!” The words are out of your mouth before you can control them and loud enough to match his.</p><p>He smirks devilishly, satisfied at the outburst. He nods slowly to himself, mumbling something you can’t make out. </p><p>“What is it, <em>old man</em>? You’ve started talking to yourself now?” you ask, voice back to normal. </p><p>He shakes his head. </p><p>“A man was found dead in a ditch, young, good-looking, and from a rich family” he says, and opens the folder in front of you, pushing it your way. “Tell me, does he remind you of anyone?” </p><p>You don’t dare look down yet, stubbornly not wanting to break the stare first. You’re not intimidated by him and his loud voice – <em>scumbag</em>. </p><p>“Come on”, he says, his deep voice lowers this time, attempting to genuinely convince you, “look at his face and tell me if you find him familiar or not” </p><p>You finally do and your blood runs cold at once. </p><p>The dimples on his face, brilliant grin, and even transparent glasses perched over his nose – he looks like your husband – your <em>missing</em>husband.  </p><p>“What-” you exhale, “that’s not-” </p><p>“It’s not him, no” he says, shutting the folder in a split second, leaving you to think if you’d even imagined the face and his features,</p><p>“The DNA test said so at least. Is that why you accepted the prison sentence – as a sort of alibi?” </p><p>“I didn’t do this -” you spit out, “I have <em>never </em>seen that man in my life” </p><p>“Funny” he says, “I don’t think it’s believable when you run in the same circles – rich, and elite” </p><p>“I didn’t join that group until I got married” you snap again, “Even when I had my own money, they didn’t accept me because I was a <em>nobody” </em> </p><p>“So, you <em>fell</em> into it?” </p><p>“When I got engaged-” your voice breaks, and you curse yourself over it, “that’s when I stopped being a black sheep” </p><p>“We both know your husband is not missing – he hasn’t quit his job and family and left to Peru or wherever-” </p><p>“I don’t know<em> this</em> man”, you reinstate, voice higher and shrill, “I don’t know how to make you <em>believe</em> that when you’re so<em> fucking</em> biased towards me!” </p><p>“You <em>killed</em> him” he says, pointing a finger at you, “passed from stabbing to a .21 glock at the back of his head to finish the job, then thrown him out of your car to roll down a ditch like he’s not a person but a mere discarded object!” </p><p>You stand up, your chair falling loudly over the floor behind, ”I didn’t<em> fucking </em>do this. I was in prison. I was building up my fucking life from scratch -” then you halt, replaying his words in your brain.</p><p>He's struck by your sudden silence as well. He waits, eyebrows raised. </p><p>“What did you say?”  </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Before-” you say, feeling your heart jump to your throat, beating loudly and painfully against your trachea, “how did you say he died?” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You said he was stabbed and the-then, shot? <em>Shot? </em>You said <em>he was shot</em>?” </p><p>He nods, movements too slow and still shocked at your bizarre words and rushed actions. </p><p>“Was he<em> fucking</em> shot with a .21  glock, Agent  Hotchner? Yes or no?” you raise your voice, circling the table to come stand before him, approaching him for no other motive than to hear the truth up-close.</p><p>Not wanting to waste time over reading his body language, face, or dissect his words. You <em>need  </em>the actual truth, like you need air in your lungs. </p><p>“Yes” he says, voice unguarded, “A single shot to the back of the head and fifteen stab wounds on his torso” </p><p>He doesn’t have to ask why because your knees buckle – the answer clouding your brain so fast, it makes you feel faint. His hands clutch your elbows, catching you before you drop heavily on the ground. He pulls you aggressively up, his hold leaving new bruises over your skin. </p><p>“What is it?” you don’t linger on the fact his voice shows genuine concern for the first time. </p><p>“Tha-that’s what my father owned. Please – please, tell me he’s not out -” your voice is a weak plead. </p><p>Realization hits him too as he mirrors the shock on your face.</p><p><em>He can’t be out – there’s no way he’s out.  </em> </p><p>You don’t register what happens afterwards, except that he leaves you over a chair, getting out of the room at once. Door shutting loudly behind him, and the tears come hot and fast, pouring over your cheeks like years ago when he’d been imprisoned.  </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>“She’s a good actress” Morgan says beside him. You haven’t stopped crying since Hotch had left you alone in the room but he knows, inexplicably, that you hadn’t been acting this time. </p><p>But before he can answer, Prentiss does for him. </p><p>“I don’t think she is now. Look at her body language – she has to be awfully good to fake the shaking and the shivers.”</p><p>Hotch thought the same. </p><p>“What do you think, Hotch?” </p><p>They look at him expectantly – after all they’d witnessed the talk that happened inside. And the familiarity with which him and you discussed, meant he knew you more than he let on. He turns to Garcia, sitting down with a laptop in her hands – searching for the alibi and then for her father. </p><p>“Oh” she lets out, and Hotch knows already, “her father escaped from prison a year ago-“ </p><p>Hotch turns to look at you again through the one-way mirror. You’ve stopped crying at last – eyes swollen red, and mascara running down your cheeks. Something tugs at him inside his chest but he quickly shakes it away.  </p><p>“Why didn’t your alerts catch this, Garcia? How was I not notified?” </p><p>Garcia flinches at his voice.  </p><p>“I-I didn’t because they-they have different surnames. And everyone thought he must have died because they found his clothes in the woods.” </p><p>“Clothes?” Rossi repeats, “what do you mean, clothes?” </p><p>“yes” Garcia nods feverishly, as she turns her laptop screen towards them.</p><p>They all circle around her, eyes fixed at the news headline – <em>escaped convict</em>, and then the police report, stating how most prisoners die swimming through the lake. Especially when they find clothes or personal items floating over the surface or at the shore.  </p><p>“Reid would tell us a percentage on probability of survival” Rossi says, “too bad he’s not here” </p><p>Hotch stares at you again – at how easily you’d switched from your old self to this new façade. Now calm and collected, posture once again straight, you take deep breaths in and out – completely back to a new normal.</p><p>He doesn’t want anyone else to break the news though. And maybe he’s being selfish for the wrong reasons. He wants to chip away at your fake persona again. He walks back in, your eyes finding his as soon as you hear the door open. </p><p>“He’s escaped” you say, reading him at once, catching him by surprise. </p><p>“Yes” Hotch says, “We need to run a few tests for gun residue” </p><p>He expects you to refuse but you don’t. You push your open palms over the table, knuckles against the surface. </p><p>“Do whatever’s necessary.” </p><p>He’s weirdly disappointed – he feels it like a bitter taste left over in his mouth. He’d wished for a little more fight – had a dozen arguments running in his mind, ready to sprout them for when it would happen.  </p><p>“I’ll obey you <em>this time</em>, Agent Hotchner” you say, “Won’t happen again, I promise. Just don’t get used to it” </p><p>-- </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thnx for readin!!!!<br/>kinda wish i was reading this instead of writing it lol bcs i feel like im not givin justice to the story as much as i want to but let's seeeee<br/>thnx again bye bye</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ship to Wreck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You approach Agent Hotchner with an offer - wanting to help.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yes im back with another one!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That test he ran comes up negative and it verifies at once your innocence because he’s not interested in you anymore. And you could head home – that’s what they’d all said after verifying your alibi as well. But your feet cannot move, and your brain feels fizzled.</p><p>So, you stay seated inside the police reception hall, catching quick glances of agents in suits as they go in and out. There’s 2 new people in Agent Hotchner’s unit you note. One is an old man – moustache and salt-and-pepper hair, emanating the usual high-class air that only rich people have.</p><p>The other is a girl, black haired, wearing a red tank top and slacks. She doesn’t sport her gun holster at her side like Elle did. You find yourself thinking about her more and more as the time passes. </p><p>The young police officer from before – Eric or Erin – hands you a warm cup of coffee and when it’s done, almost every agent from the BAU having left the precinct, you go back to your tactics.  First, it’s Eric/Erin, who you charm by asking for the bathroom – something clean and more lady-like than the visitor’s rooms. That’s how you get inside without any suspicions. Second, hand covering his, body close so he can catch a whiff of your lilac perfume, you ask him to get you another coffee.</p><p>It’s not enough time for what you want to do. But you’d noticed how much he stumbles under pressure so 5-6 minutes is all you have. So, you have to use it wisely. As soon as he leaves, you walk in deeper through the corridor of open offices. Police officers do not notice anything strange at your presence – not when you stride confidently through the room as if you’ve been here countless times before.  </p><p>You hear Agent Hotchner’s voice before you can spot him. </p><p>“-he’s traced her back to Washington, maybe the news of her engagement got sent to his prison-“ </p><p>You halt – all your makeshift strength abandoning you at once as if evaporating from the warm weather. He says something else – orders and whatnot, and then a door slams shut, and he’s out. He stops before you, finding you before you can find him. </p><p>“How did you get here?” he asks, expression stern, “who let you in?” </p><p>Words won’t come out of your mouth, no matter how much you will them to. He shakes his head, narrowing the distance. </p><p>“Come on” he says. He grabs your elbow and it’s as if he grants you the power to talk again. </p><p>“I can help you catch him-“ </p><p>Talking – more like blurting out words – surprises him too. He stops, hand still over your elbow. </p><p>“I know everything about him, childhood, past crimes - <em>everything</em>.” </p><p>“We have the information we need” His hold on you tightens, his patience running thin. You push through with more self-confidence. </p><p>“G-Gideon – he mentioned something about a profile once.”  </p><p>His eyes snap to your face. </p><p>“How you take someone’s childhood, life story, and everything to compile a profile. It’s how you catch them, right?” </p><p>He doesn’t give you a sign so you continue. </p><p>“My father – you thought he was impulsive and hot-headed, and it’s surprising he escaped, no?” You near him, and he takes a step back on instinct.  </p><p>“You could never profile him to have the potential to be a fugitive, right? I have everything you could ever need on him. I can help. <em>Let me </em>help.“ </p><p>He’s taller than you, more imposing and authoritative than any other fed or police officer you’d run into. He won’t get charmed by good looks or threats, or anything else you’ve tried on others. Though a part of you strongly believes he’s hiding something – ready to burst only when the right moment comes.  </p><p>“Agent Hotchner, don’t waste this golden opportunity only because you can’t stand me and I hate your guts.” </p><p>There’s the tiniest flicker of understanding in his eyes – that you’re on the same boat at least. </p><p>“I know every single thing about <em> that </em>  man. Don’t make me go home and get killed just because  <em> you </em>  –“ you poke at his chest, “can’t let go of your <em>fucking</em> pride” </p><p>He inhales sharply and exhales through his nose. You expect him to push you away or call for security and cuff you again. Yet, there’s the tiniest nod, then his Adam's apple bops as he swallows his anger. </p><p>“I’ll talk with my unit” he says slowly, words measured and flat.</p><p>You retreat, nodding too. That’s the politest reaction he’s ever had thus far that did not make you want to snap. He lowers his head down at your level, close enough you can almost smell him – <em>is that an expensive cologne? The federal agents you’ve met do not care about smelling good or spending money –  </em>an eyebrow cocks up, perfectly arching on his steeled face.</p><p>His eyes are intense as he looks you up and down, and you fear he can almost hear all of your thoughts – especially the useless ones that are scrambling to find the brand of his cologne. His voice is a drawl, low but not soft: </p><p>“Get out before I cuff you again” he orders. </p><p><em> Oh... cuff? Y</em>ou clear your throat – hiding it with a quick laugh, glad at the brief display of emotion, but confused over the unfamiliar turmoil he's caused inside you. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>“Hotch, you’ve got to be kidding” Morgan says exasperated, “she’s a murderer. We can’t let a murderer help us. What’s next – <em>the zodiac killer</em> becoming our new technical analyst?” </p><p>“Hey!” Garcia calls out from her chair.</p><p>Hotch hadn’t told them about your offer until they’d returned to the precinct. And even then, he’d dragged them out of the conference room and to the hallway. While you stood in an office close by, waiting for them to come to a decision. </p><p>“Oh, right” Prentiss says, “wasn’t she deemed in the media as the black widow for killing her husband-“ </p><p>“Allegedly” your voice calls out from the room. The door is open so you’ve heard everything they’ve said. </p><p>Morgan looks at the door then at Hotch. </p><p>“She killed her husband” </p><p>“<em>Allegedly-“ </em>  you call again, and they watch you lean over as your face comes to view, “it’s important for me that you guys know it’s <em>allegedly.” </em> </p><p>Hotch steps inside first, leaving no choice to the others but to follow. Your face is cleared from tears, long hair pulled in a tight ponytail behind.  </p><p>“A body was never found” you say but it doesn’t help in granting you innocence in their eyes.  </p><p>“You went to prison” Morgan says, “why did you do that when you could have paid the fine?” </p><p>You turn towards Hotch instead, looking for a cue to respond truthfully or lie – Hotch nods for the first. </p><p>“The Anderson family is powerful and proud,” you start, “they wanted me to pay for their son’s disappearance in one way or another. If I hadn’t gone to prison for something I didn’t commit – they would have killed me.” </p><p>Hotch hadn’t expected that answer either. </p><p>“I chose being safe rather than murdered – given that I have nobody looking out for me” </p><p>“3 months is not enough for the murder of their son-“ </p><p>Your eyebrows shoot up and Morgan corrects: </p><p>“<em>Alleged  </em>murder” </p><p>“That’s why I’m staying low – no more living amongst rich people. Or living alone” </p><p>Thus, the flatmates, he realizes. </p><p>“Did you kill your husband?” Prentiss asks boldly. </p><p>Your face betrays no emotion, positive or negative. </p><p>“No. I loved my husband” </p><p>You turn to stare at him – Hotch knows you know he doesn’t believe you.  </p><p>“I’ve been around law enforcement all my life – I know how to read you all. And I can tell you don’t trust me. Should I show you how well I know you already?” </p><p>You grin, teeth pearly white and shining, and too cocky – “may I, Agent Hotchner?” </p><p>You’re going through the whole crew but Hotch doesn’t mind. In fact, a part of him wants you to try – solely because he wants to see you miserably fail. He nods. </p><p>“What’s your name, Agent?” he watches you ask Reid first, who’s been quiet this entire time. </p><p>“I’m- uh, Spencer Reid” he looks at Hotch for approval. Your eyes catch the tiny interaction. Eyes running up and down his figure, taking in his jacket, vest, and long fingers.  </p><p>-- </p><p>“You’re extremely intelligent, aren’t you?” you ask, remembering faintly the glasses he’d donned 2 years ago.  </p><p>“Agent Hotchner is strong, as is Agent <em>Something </em>–“ you motion at the other man who’d accused you of being a murderer, “and sorry to state the obvious – you’re too skinny to haul a prisoner around. But Agent Hotchner doesn’t keep useless people – he’s too controlling, too demanding. The way you look at him too for validation tells me you respect him deeply” </p><p>“Everyone does” Agent Something says, “he’s our unit chief” </p><p>“What’s your name?”  </p><p>“I’m Agent Morgan” </p><p>“Agent Morgan, can you please wait for your turn?” </p><p>You watch his hands curl into fists and Hotch mumbles a small <em> Morgan, </em> which makes you smile.  </p><p>“You have <em>some</em> issues like me, Agent Reid. I can see it when you address Agent Hotchner. You were probably forced to grow up sooner than your peers – we have a few things in common” </p><p>He takes a step back, and you pass to the woman in front. </p><p>“Where’s Agent Greenway?” you ask Agent Hotchner, not tearing your eyes off the new girl. </p><p>“She quit” he replies, and you have to take a deep breath to steady yourself first. </p><p>“You’re definitely rich – I don’t have to guess it. Your necklace looks expensive – as do your shoes. Which parent is the distant one: mother or father?” </p><p>To your surprise she actually answers, “My mother is a diplomat-“ </p><p>“Ah. Of course.” </p><p>She leans forward, holding out a hand for you to shake – oddly formal but you do so either way. </p><p>“Agent Prentiss” </p><p>“Did Agent Jareau quit too?” you ask Agent Hotchner in annoyance. </p><p>“No, she’s just not here now” </p><p>“Cool” </p><p>Agent Morgan’s patience is almost totally vanished, so you finally turn to him. </p><p>“The muscles, the tight shirt, the incessant need to always look good and tough – coupled with the hyper sexuality, I think you’re hiding something dark from your childhood, Agent Morgan.” </p><p>His face changes in an instant. </p><p>“I could almost do your job now- “ you grin at Agent Hotchner and he shakes his head. </p><p>“We haven’t decided yet” </p><p>“Oh,” you let out an exaggerated sigh, “<em>bummer </em>” </p><p>They leave again and this time they don’t return. </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p>You knock lightly on the door before entering. Agent Hotchner’s hunched over a desk, scribbling down fast over papers. He doesn’t even look up.  </p><p>“I’ll get to you soon-“  </p><p>You scan the expanse of his office – dark and grey, the sun through his window casting plays of light over the floor.</p><p>There’s a bigger table in the room, as well as two sofas. Then again, your eyes do not settle on the furniture but on photos on the shelves behind him – of his family photo. </p><p>“How did you find my office?” he asks, already angry, noticing at last you’d been the one to enter his office and not one of his agents. </p><p>“It wasn’t hard” you admit, “flash a security guard, talk accolades about you, and how angry you’d be if I was late, and they practically begged me to get into the elevator” </p><p>He places the pen down, tearing his eyes away from the papers. It had taken him days to make a decision on your offer. First, he’d called asking you how you knew about the gun.</p><p>You’d answered that it had been the same they’d found in his first theft. Then 3 other days had passed and he’d invited you to their offices. Directions: stay in the ground floor until an agent directs you upstairs. You’d skipped the last part entirely. </p><p>“You don’t have clearance here, and for a reason” </p><p>“You should let your guards know. I’m just a pretty face” </p><p>He scoffs, picking up the pen again. You push through, standing now in front of his desk. His wife is blonde haired – hair shorter than the pics in his wallet, and you ask, without planning it first: </p><p>“Is your son a blonde or a brunette?” </p><p>“What?” he asks, throwing you a look. </p><p>“Just answer the question – I mean no harm” </p><p>He cocks an eyebrow.  </p><p>“<em>You</em> mean no harm?” </p><p>“Humor me” </p><p>He lets out a breath, “Blonde” </p><p>So, he’s taken after the mother, not him – that’s nice. </p><p>“Blonde babies are cute” you say genuinely, but he keeps staring, “I mean it.” </p><p>He goes back to his documents with that. </p><p>“It’s good also because if your wife grows to resent you, then she won’t take it out on the child that looks too much like you.“ </p><p>“<em>Careful </em>-“ he warns, looking over his document, his deep voice at a low pitch. “don’t make me regret this” </p><p>You smirk – “okay, maybe I meant <em>some </em>harm. Sorry” </p><p>You sit on the arm of the couch in front of his desk, looking around. Too many reports, too many documents titled confidential. And you hear yourself ask again; voice feeble. </p><p>“Why did Agent Greenway quit?” </p><p>You hadn’t managed to restrain all emotion from your voice because he looks up – curious eyes scanning your face. </p><p>“She couldn’t handle the severity of the crimes” he says carefully, testing your reaction.  </p><p>You remember her words though – her gentleness after she’d guided you outside the interrogation room once Gideon was done with you. And you still recall her giving you a ride home that night, after your father had been arrested. Too much silence has passed and you realize this too late. </p><p>“You slept with her” he says, efficiently ending the tension.  </p><p>“No. Not at all-“ but your answer is too fast, and it’s not a good attempt to hide the truth.</p><p>“Is this some perverse fantasy of yours, Agent Hotchner? Thinking about your female agents sleeping with your suspects?” </p><p>He pushes the papers away from him, focusing all his attention on you. </p><p>“if you’re going to help us, you need to be honest.<em> Brutally</em> honest.” </p><p><em> Does that mean he’s accepting your offer? </em> </p><p>“Will it be both ways?” you ask.  </p><p>“Yes” he says, no hesitation in his words. “Now, let me ask you again: did you sleep with her?” </p><p>You take a steady breath.  </p><p>“Yes” </p><p>He nods, “when?” </p><p>“The night when you arrested my father” you don’t let him digest the information, because you speak again, “my turn: did <em>you</em> sleep with her?” </p><p>You place both palms over his table, hoisting yourself up so you’re taller than him. </p><p>“No” he replies, “I’m married” </p><p>You look pointedly at the mark on his left finger – where a wedding band should have been. </p><p>“Are you, Agent Hotchner?” </p><p>“I <em>was</em>” he says, arm back on his lap. “And I don’t date my coworkers” </p><p>“Then why do you look almost jealous-“ you point at his other hand, two fingers rubbing circles over his thumb, “or are you simply nervous?” </p><p>Instead of retreating like always, he meets your gaze head on, dark eyes set on yours with unrelenting intensity.</p><p>His eyes trace your face, the long silver earrings catching the light and reflecting it every time you move your head. His eyes stop on the loose strands of hair framing your face – this time a fiery red. </p><p>“I’m simply regretting calling you here” </p><p>You let out a laugh, settling back down on the couch. </p><p>“You’ve changed your hair color again” his voice is low, almost imperceptible. </p><p>You’re speechless over that small observation – not that it would ever be relevant. Explanations tumble from your mouth. </p><p>“I didn’t want him to recognize me while walking down the street. If he’s going to find me, I’d rather he be smart instead of it being by chance.” </p><p>He understands the reason why your hair is always long now, instead of how he’d first seen it. Short-cut, tucked behind your ears – the same style as your father’s victims. </p><p>“We think he’s still in Washington” Hotch says. “He doesn’t know you’re in Virginia” </p><p>You nod, a small sigh of relief escaping from your lips. </p><p>“So, what really happened to Elle?”, you ask, dying to hear the truth. </p><p>“That’s confidential” he says, standing up. </p><p>“What?” you stand up too. “you said we will be honest to each other” </p><p>“I did” he says, “and I’m being so” he leads the way out of his office and you trail behind, angry at how he’d managed to get information out of you so easily. With nothing in return. He owed you at least one sentence. </p><p>“By telling me it’s confidential?” </p><p>“It is” </p><p>“You’re literally a scumbag, you know that-“ </p><p>A painful huff of air leaves your lungs as you hit, chest-first, a person as you get out of his office. Hands grip your shoulders, and you raise your hands quick – old reflexes never dying – </p><p>Before you can do anything though, Hotch stands before you, barricading you from the other person. </p><p>“Dave” he says, and you take a deep breath, calming down your nerves. Instead of the face of the person whose name he’d called, you’re met with Agent Hotchner’s back.  </p><p>“Sorry” the other man says, “I was coming to ask where you’d like to meet” </p><p>“Conference room” he says, and he takes a tentative step to the side. You glare at him – <em>was he expecting you to attack this man too, like he thought you were going to with Gideon years ago? </em> </p><p>“Ah-” the man breathes out, finally looking at you, “I’m glad we finally meet” </p><p>He’s the other man you’d seen – the old one who looked rich.  </p><p>“I’m Agent Rossi” he says, “I apologize for running into you” </p><p>Agent Hotchner’s gaze bores holes into the back of your skull, watching your every move. </p><p>“That’s okay. I needed the shock to wake me actually. No time to make coffee this morning since Agent Hotchner wanted to meet at 8am” </p><p>The man laughs, “then let me make you one. As a real apology” </p><p>“Oh-” his polite offer catches you off guard, “uh, sure. Okay. I take it black.” </p><p>He nods and you watch him descend the stairs to the bullpen, headed then to the small kitchenette. </p><p>“Wow-” you breathe out, glancing at Agent Hotchner, “so there are actual polite male agents in your unit” </p><p>He doesn’t deign you with an answer but walks you to the conference room, where everyone’s already seated. The air feels thick at once – a billion unspoken things hanging over your heads. </p><p>“Good morning” you greet first, seeing as nobody wants to speak, “so is it always this awkward or is this all just for me?” </p><p>“Sit down” Agent Hotchner orders and you do as he says, glaring. You can’t help but think that maybe he’s really entertained by the idea of having you obey him – isn't he? </p><p>You take a seat between Reid and Agent Jareau, flashing her a polite smile seeing as she’s present to this too. </p><p>“You’re here because there’s been a new victim – a 34 years old man found in Rock Creek Park” Agent Hotchner speaks, and it’s JJ with the remote who switches on the big screen over the wall.</p><p>Gruesome photos flash in an instance – mud and dried blood, and even animal prints over the clothed corpse – of what remains of the man. </p><p>“Jesus Christ” you mutter through your teeth, looking away at once, bile rising up your throat at the images now seared in your brain - “give me a warning – <em>Jesus</em>" </p><p>Agent Jareau gives you an apologetic smile, “sorry” she mumbles. </p><p>“We found a golden pendant in the scene” He continues, and you refuse to watch this time – <em>is this some kind of petty revenge? </em> </p><p>When you don’t move, Agent Morgan pushes a photo towards you over the table. You turn, albeit reluctantly. The pendant he talks about it is eerily familiar, resembling the one you’d bought your husband for his birthday – a stupid gift, but memorable because it was your first purchase after signing into the company.</p><p>Picking up the photo in your hands, you note that it almost has the same circular markings, etched into the small locket – hm, even the same initials – N.A. </p><p>“No-” you exhale, your hands shaking – this is his pendant, “This is – this is... It’s Nathan’s necklace” </p><p>The two women – Agent Jareau and Prentiss turn to look at Agent Hotchner after hearing your words. You do the same. </p><p>“Is thi-this his?” you ask him, “is this why I’m here?” </p><p>He doesn’t give you a sign so you glare at the women, then at Agent Morgan – none of them speak. </p><p>“You leave me in the dark for three days. I hear nothing – not on the news, not from the precinct in Washington. I called the Bureau several times just to be put on hold. I thought you could at least do the decent thing and <em>inform me” </em>  </p><p>You stand up, “Just cut the <em>shit</em>. I’m clearly not here because you’re accepting my offer to help. What did you call me here for?” </p><p>The room grows quiet at once – apart from the buzz emitting off of the tv screen in front, there’s not a single peep. After what feels like forever does Agent Hotchner speak: </p><p>“We want you to tell us everything about your father – here, in front of everyone.” </p><p>And<em>  at once, </em> you think. So, there won’t be a need for them to keep you around, or in the loop. </p><p>“No” you reply, “I’m not doing that” </p><p>“I’m not finished” he says, “The Bureau is ready to offer you a deal for your collaboration” </p><p>“A deal?” <em>For what? </em> </p><p><em> “For the murder of your husband”,  </em>he says matter-of-factly, and it takes you all the willpower in the world to not lash out at his words, “you confess where you hid the body and you will get a reduced sentence” </p><p>You push the photo away from you, breathing in and out just as you’d first learned to do in order to control your spouts of anger. But even through the inhales and exhales, your heart continues beating fast, and when you push the chair away from you it’s not in calmness. It hits the wall behind, steel legs screeching over the tiles.</p><p>After everything, this had been only a simple ruse to get you in the midst of people like him – a ruse to get you to accept being scrutinized under the pretense of helping them catch a serial killer. Only to end up imprisoned again. A deal – he calls it.<em> A deal. </em> Your words are deliberately peaceful – slow and controlled: </p><p>“I did <em> not </em> murder my husband. I’m not taking a deal for something I didn’t do.” You circle the table, but don’t approach him – knowing the other four people in the room won’t possibly let you get closer than you are now. </p><p>“I <em>did, </em>however, offer you to help in a case you are stuck on. I can see it in your face you have no idea how he is choosing these men. And you don’t know the first thing about my father.” </p><p>You walk to the door, turning to only look at him sideways, “My offer is off the table. Good luck catching him” and walk out. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Hotch hadn’t thought it over – not when you’d left so unexpectedly. He’d assumed you’d react badly to his plan, but he’d hoped your reaction would tell them more about the truth.</p><p>It was how they interrogated people – through studying their body language. Yours, however, switched in unpredictable ways. After today, he realizes it’s not unplanned as he thought it to be – every move seemed calculated, every single detail, even your tone of voice. </p><p>JJ is silent before him after the news he’d relayed her. </p><p>“Are you going to call Elle?” She asks at last, “to ask about<em> her?” </em> </p><p>He shakes his head, “I doubt she will pick up seeing my name on her phone” </p><p>She lets out a sigh, “Sorry.”  </p><p>It’s not even an hour later when she’s back in his office, after running through the bullpen, climbing the steps of his office in a hurry. He stands up at once. </p><p>“What is it?” </p><p>“Channel 5” she simply says and he picks up the remote turning on the TV and pressing the appropriate number.</p><p>Standing in front of dozens of cameras or more, in a podium, dressed in white and hair cut sharp to your jawline like the first time he’d met you – he watches you address the public in front of a few police officers.</p><p>Headline below reads: <em>Police grants $10,000 to whoever presents information over the Bachelor Snatcher. </em> </p><p>“I’m sorry” she says, as he approaches the screen in surprise - “I tried to get in touch with them but nobody is picking up. I fear it’s going to be running in all states” </p><p>“The police agreed to this?” he asks and JJ shrugs. </p><p>Hotch presses the volume all the way up and your voice floods the room – empathetic and compassionate. </p><p><em> “-  </em> <em> so </em> <em>  I’m funding the help in catching whoever is responsible for these horrific disappearances. If you hear or see something strange, please do not hesitate to call the police department. We will not give this terrible person the audience he wants – instead we remember the men that left us too quickly -” </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>Let’s go” he turns to JJ, “we need to shut this down before it’s too late” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thnx for reading!!<br/>(do y'all think she murdered her husband? what are the theories? ? lol)</p><p>by next chapter they will start to ~work closely~</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Spotless Mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You finally reach a consensus with the BAU</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>not me writing another chapter when i have so much work to do for uni sdhqdkqsdksl im dumb af y'all<br/>(also thnx @ genevievedarcygranger for the comment last chapter - i hope u dont mind i used it as a line here lol -(and that u dont mind the shoutout sry!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He wanted you out, wanted to get rid of you? – <em>then fine</em><em>, you’d bring him to you instead</em>. </p><p>Another journalist asks a question, to which is answered by one of the police officers who'd driven in from Washington this morning. The event wraps up quickly and most of the news crew is packed and already parting ways when a black SUV speeds through the street.</p><p>You smile, directing your attention to the officers instead. The scratching of the breaks over the asphalt is loud, as is the slamming of car doors. Unlike how you’d expected, Agent Hotchner does not address you once he’s close. His anger is directed to the police officer who looks up at him. </p><p>“Agent Hotchner-“ </p><p>“I specifically told you to not involve the news” he snaps, “I told you that Agent Jareau will oversee every single communication your office has with the media.” </p><p>The man gulps, visibly intimidated. </p><p>“I-“ </p><p>“You’re interfering with a federal case and your superior will hear about it-“ </p><p>“It’s not federal” you jump in, and he finally turns to look at you. There’s not a hair out of place, not a single crease on his suit, but he looks –<em> feels</em><em> –</em>disheveled.  </p><p>“All the victims were found within Washington state lines” </p><p>You’d done your own research after leaving their offices, on the competencies of the FBI. Both bodies had been found in Washington – he’d said so himself.  </p><p>“No, they weren’t” the officer says. You flinch -<em>he’d lied? </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>Where was the first body found?” you ask him, and he turns his entire body to you – the officer in between you both immediately forgotten, as is the entire matter with the press. </p><p>“Where was it, Agent Hotchner?” </p><p>His nostrils flare, a visible vein on his neck angrily inflamed as he holds your gaze. </p><p>“Outside Red Demo, in the Ozarks” he responds.  </p><p>You blink slowly, trying to digest the information he drops at you so casually. The Red Demo – the strip club you used to work at as a manager before leaving that entire part of the country. And you understand much too late why he’d been so<em> goddamn  </em> stubborn, so<em> incredibly </em>distrustful of you. Even through the alibi and the test – he believes you’re a <em>serial killer</em>.</p><p>And you’re left speechless, because what do you tell someone who believes you’re a serial killer <em>just like your father</em>? Being accused of murder  was one thing – one <em>singular </em>murder was digestible. Something you’d learned to cope with  -  as if  it was as simple as not finding milk in the morning to eat with your cereal.</p><p>But to be capable of <em>this</em>, and  taking after your father?  You start to understand even the little charade he’d pulled this morning in front of his unit – all of them trying to grasp your  true  intentions, trying to <em>read </em>you. </p><p>“The Red Demo” you repeat, voice still steady somehow. </p><p>“Yes” he says, and watches you in silence. The officer beside you both is as confused as Agent Jareau who has just joined you. </p><p>“I see” you let out. </p><p>Everything is important to him, childhood, past crimes, life story,<em> everything -  </em>the same sentence you'd said about your father<em><em>.</em> You'd offered him help in understanding your father, while he's studying you.</em></p><p>“When?” you ask, unsure if he will even reply sincerely. </p><p>“The 1st of the month” he replies. </p><p>Two days after your release from prison – the <em>same</em> exact way as when your father had started killing.  </p><p>“Agent Hotchner-“ the police officer tries again, interrupting at last the icy stare he has on you, “I apologize if this interferes with your investigation – but we found it important to bring forth witnesses through the reward offered so generously-” he glances at you quickly, “since these people are rich and value their privacy.” </p><p>“You think $10.000 will sway them?” Agent Jareau asks, “I don’t think that money will even make them blink” </p><p>“I don’t understand-” the officer starts and Agent Jareau interrupts him quickly. </p><p>“Hotch, what’s done is done. I can only convince them to not do reruns.” </p><p>“Then do it” he says, and you’re left confused. “You’ve done enough Officer Smith, I will see you back in Washington”  </p><p>The officer nods, calling his colleagues as well, leaving the stage. Instead of addressing you, Agent Hotchner turns as well, walking back to his car like nothing happened. You stare at his back for a few moments then follow – almost running after him. </p><p>“Hey! Agent Hotchner – you can’t just-“ </p><p>He whips around fast making you stop before you barrel into him. </p><p>“We will assign you a security detail. Expect a patrol car in front of your apartment building.” </p><p>“I don’t need a security detail” </p><p>He narrows the distance with one wide stride of his, “If you’re right,” he says through his teeth, looking at you in the eyes, “-you called upon a serial killer to come to Virginia. But you already knew that didn’t you?” </p><p>You take a deep breath in – the press conference had been solely for your father, as is the new hairstyle you’re sporting. </p><p>“This isn’t about the reward” </p><p>“No it isn’t” you say, “And I don’t want to be surveilled 24/7” </p><p>“You pull something like this again – I will send you to prison for interfering with an active investigation-“ </p><p>You cut him off – “Your empty threats don’t work with me. They're baseless. I’ve been in and out of a police precinct since I was 6 years old, Agent Hotchner. I know every single police procedure and I’m<em> not </em>interfering with anything.” </p><p>“But you don’t know anything about the FBI” he retorts. </p><p>You let out a laugh – too quick and sudden to be anything but an exhale of breath to his face. You both know why he's mad.</p><p>“You’re going to throw me in jail because you <em>can’t stand me</em>?” </p><p>He looks you up and down as if seriously considering how easy that would be and the repercussions. </p><p>“If you won’t listen to me, then I will just wait for my father to show up. Maybe then, you will believe my <em> words</em>.”</p><p>And your <em>innocence. </em> </p><p>He turns around, not deigning you with an answer – Agent Jareau waiting for him next to their SUV. </p><p>“Why won’t you just let me help you?” you call out as he makes his way to the driver’s side, “If you believe I’m doing this then it’s in your best interest to keep me under surveillance yourself! – I will give you access to every single part of my life, even the one in Washington and in the Ozarks.”  </p><p>You raise your voice as he opens the car door, Agent Jareau doing the same with the passenger’s side. You stand in front of the car now, physically impeding them from leaving. </p><p>“I will even give you access to the social circles of rich people in Washington – <em>anything</em>” </p><p>He shuts the door once he’s in, turning on the car engine. You step away – simply because you’ve got nothing more to add. They leave without a word. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>It’s almost 9pm when you notice the police car in front of your house is exchanged with another one. But it is not filled with 2 old men like the last one. You pick up the coffee cups and make your way out the house. </p><p>“Thought you might want some coffee” you say at the two agents once you near their car. Behind the wheel is the new agent who’s replaced Elle, while on the passenger’s seat is Agent Rossi. </p><p>The man grants you a smile, taking the cups even though the woman beside him is reluctant. </p><p>“Thanks for keeping watch I guess” you breathe out, knowing they’re only here to see when you’ll leave the house to commit another murder - not to save your life.</p><p>“You moved out” the man says, as he takes a sip of his coffee, “no more flatmates?” </p><p>You shove your hands in your pockets. “If my father finds my house, I’d rather be the only victim.” </p><p>He nods, “And the hair too.” </p><p>Your hand goes to the hair behind your ears – though still red, you’d taken a scissor and cut it all. “I’m just fitting his type, since he has one.”  </p><p>Agent Rossi nods again. </p><p>“I wanted to inform you that I wake up early – old habit. I usually go for a jog at 5am but considering I invited a criminal to my living quarters, I will push it to 7am. Wouldn't want to make it easy for him.” </p><p>“Sounds reasonable” the man says, smiling.  </p><p>“And I need to pick up some groceries since it’s a new house. If someone wants to join me I will leave at 7.30am.” </p><p>You glance at the woman too, but she doesn’t look your way. </p><p>“Well, thanks for keeping us informed” Agent Rossi says. </p><p>You slap lightly a hand over the roof of the car and turn to your house again.  </p><p>--- </p><p>  </p><p>When you open the front door at 7.30am, tote bag in hand, Agent Rossi waits over your doorstep. He’s changed into another suit and has sunglasses on.  </p><p>“Morning” he says. You offer him the cup of coffee you’d prepared this morning, hoping one of them would take you up on your invitation. </p><p>“Let’s hope it’s a good one” you reply as he takes the cup, stepping away from the door.</p><p>You lock it behind you and you note an SUV parked in front – they’re not being modest anymore, you guess. He opens the passenger’s door for you and you mumble a thanks, stepping in. He starts the car and switches on the radio to a morning show. </p><p>“It’s a good weather” you say, despite not wanting to be the first to break the silence. He lets out a small smile. </p><p>“It is. Where to?” </p><p>“There’s an organic store I like – a bit far from here but it’s good” you say glancing his way. </p><p>He’s got a calmness about him that Gideon didn’t have, and he seems easygoing. </p><p>“I think I know it” </p><p>There’s not much talk on the drive, apart from the general questions you direct him – which he answers with no problem and at length. He tells you he’s Italian American and that he was in the military when he was younger.</p><p>Then, as you’d first thought, he lets it be known that he’s used to the rich lifestyle. When he parks the car and you both head out, he’s the one pushing the shopping cart. And you tell him jokingly that he’s too gentlemanly to be working for Agent Hotchner’s unit. </p><p>“You’re frugal” he says, once you drop a bag of rice into the cart.  </p><p>“Sorry?” </p><p>He points at the two boxes of spaghetti and tomato sauce – all from common brands and you'd gotten no unnecessary Knick knacks apart from the mere basics.  </p><p>“You’re loaded but you’re frugal. I was assuming a young, rich woman like you would spend money on wines and various exotic fruits.” </p><p>You pause, not knowing how to respond. Unlike the observations Agent Hotchner makes, his are not unkind and there seems to be no hidden motive – just pure curiosity. Your answer is genuine because of that. </p><p>“I guess it’s a habit” you say and he steers the cart to the large fridges in the supermarket as you lead the way, “when I was young I used to work, make my own money and then have to calculate my weekly expenses around that – so I didn’t have the chance to splurge on snacks.” </p><p>“But you’re rich now” he says, “Splurging was the first thing I did, personally” </p><p>A small smile escapes you. “I guess I never stopped and realized I could indulge in simple things.” </p><p>“So, no wines or expensive jewelry?”  </p><p>You shake your head, thinking it over. “I did indulge at first, I suppose”  </p><p>He stops the cart, reaching over you as you try to pick up a pack of frozen peas. </p><p>“Fresh ones are better” he says with a wink and you place the peas back in. </p><p>“I’ll take your word for it, then” </p><p>This time, you follow him through the aisles as he directs you to fresh produce. “What was it?” he asks, looking over his shoulder, rehashing your previous statement.  </p><p>“I learned how to cook. Took a bunch of expensive classes so I could learn.” you say, “Before I never had time to do anything except microwave frozen food” </p><p>He stops in front of the vegetables, taking a bag of peas and placing them in the cart – it’s not patronizing but <em>nice. </em>Good-natured. </p><p>“And do you enjoy cooking?” he asks, smiling. </p><p>“I do” you say, surprising even yourself over the new revelation. Maybe it’s why you never let Maria cook so much in the house, or why you lingered around the kitchen when she was preparing meals. It felt like more than a hobby and more than just a way to pass time. </p><p>“It makes me feel pride –“ you say aloud, “that I am able to take care of myself in a healthy way, since I'm putting myself first.” </p><p>He nods in understanding and you know it’s not fake. His phone rings, ruining the moment you're sharing. And you remember that he’s here only to keep an eye on you because they thought you a criminal.</p><p>He steps away for privacy, picking up with a relaying of his own name and title. The change of tone and face indicates it’s work related – and that it is grave. He’s too distant for you to overhear, but he glances your way more than once. When he returns, you catch snippets of the conversation. </p><p>“-yes. I understand. I will be there in 15min. I’ll see you” </p><p>He hangs up and you let out a breath. You don’t care if he thinks you’re responsible for it – you ask: </p><p>“There’s been another body, hasn’t there?” </p><p>He nods. </p><p> -</p><p>“This is a bad idea” you repeat for the thousandth time as he stops the car in the air strip, a large private plane not too far ahead.  “No, this is actually the <em>worst </em>idea. He will think I hypnotized you or something. Or that I brainwashed you via coffee” </p><p>He shoots you an easy smile, “Will you let me handle it?” </p><p>You let out a sigh. “If he kills you I have to admit that I will be too afraid to testify against him” </p><p>He laughs and steps out, taking his bag and yours – he’d urged you to prepare one, after somehow convincing you to fly with them. To <em>actually </em><em>fly </em> with them to New York.</p><p>You step out the car, trailing behind him. The FBI has private planes – you realize. They really do have private planes. You’d imagined the space to be larger – a commercial plane made sense. You’d stay away, at a safe distance from Agent Hotchner. You watch Agent Rossi climb the stairs to the plane, glancing behind when he doesn’t he hear you do the same. </p><p>“I’ll wait” you say, “Why don’t yo discuss it with him first? And if he decides to kill <em>me</em> instead – there’s more witnesses out here” </p><p>He shakes his head but doesn’t fight it. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch looks at him once again, unsure if his mind is playing tricks and that's the only reason Dave had said something so utterly absurd. </p><p>Morgan beats him to it: </p><p>“<em>What?”  </em>He asks aloud. “She’s outside? Rossi are you crazy?” </p><p>“No” he says, “I’m perfectly fine. I am merely suggesting a good idea, which I think we should consider” </p><p>“That’s what we are calling giving a ride to murderers now?” Morgan asks again, voice louder. </p><p>Dave steps through, ignoring Morgan’s comments, only to stop in front of Hotch. </p><p>“Aaron” he starts, “Prentiss and I were with her last night – she did not leave her apartment once. At 9, when the murder happened she handed us coffee” </p><p>“You’re making friends with a murderer now?” Morgan calls out from somewhere behind him. </p><p>“This morning I’ve been with her since 7am – watched her make coffee again, and walked her around the store until 8.45. <em>You know</em> she didn’t do this.” </p><p>“<em>This</em> one”  Prentiss remarks, sitting beside Hotch, “She could still have a collaborator” </p><p>“And they’re so loyal even after she came out of prison?” Dave questions, ”Not even mentioning the fact she’d have to have access to a private plane<em> and </em>a pilot to be able to travel back and forth for all these murders – she also does not have the time” </p><p>“Dave” Hotch warns, “this is –“ </p><p>“When she’s not moving houses, dying her hair, or throwing press conferences, she’s chasing us around.” Dave says, louder and all contradictions stop. They all effectively shut up. </p><p>“If you believe she has something to do with it” he continues, voice lower so you can’t hear it from outside. “Then, who best to surveille her than a team of profilers?” </p><p>There’s a glint in his eyes when he says it, Hotch notes. It’s the same one he’s come to recognize over the years as Dave’s own profiler instinct. And Hotch trusts it like he trusts everyone else’s on his unit. Dave's instinct, sometimes, more than his own. </p><p>“Fine” he breathes out, voice strained. Everyone’s eyes bug out from surprise, not believing that Dave has managed to actually convince him. </p><p>“But she’s your responsibility” he calls once the other man nears the open door. </p><p>“You’re insufferable” Dave replies. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You’d been so focused staring at the wheels, expecting the plane to take off in front of you, you don’t notice Agent Rossi waving you in. You step inside holding your breath – half expecting them all to have their guns drawn and ready at your face. They’re all spread out in seats around the plane, but the silence is loud. You also fear breaking it.</p><p>“It’s better if you sit here” Agent Rossi says, pointing to the first seat next to the door, far away from everyone else. You nod, thankful. </p><p>If it turns too much you can always just<em> fucking</em> dive out into the open sky. You plop down, and give a small smile to Agent Jareau and Reid whose smiles are awkwardly pulled into thin lines, as they're turned in their seats to look at you. It feels as if you’re back in class and had made it to detention.</p><p>The plane takes off right after, and you see them slowly start to chat again, in low, hushed voices. Then, the light overhead signals for seatbelts off and you take off yours right away.</p><p>As soon as you do, Agent Rossi raises a hand, waving you in. You frown, unsure what to do. Your eyes go to Agent Hotchner who gives the world’s tiniest nod, so you stand up. They’ve all moved near a four seat with a table in the middle, documents spread out and a laptop open. Agent Hotchner and Prentiss are on one side – Agent Morgan and Jareau on the other. Agent Reid stands, while Rossi makes room for you on the sofa beside the table. </p><p>“We have a body to show you” Agent Hotchner cuts through the chase. “You lie to us and we will know” </p><p>You nod, feeling small under their stares. Agent Jareau takes over and she pushes a photo your way. </p><p>“No gruesome unnecessary details this time” she promises, voice gentle “he is a 37 year old divorcee. Thomas Devlin, found in a freeway not too far from the Devlin mansion in New York.”  </p><p>The photo she shows you is of a man – same similar features, dark hair and glasses, but nothing else in common with your husband.</p><p>The photo is a zoom in only on his face – eyes closed and hair slightly muddy, glasses shattered on his face. You imagine the rest of him is the same as the other corpses – stab wounds and bullet piercing his skull from the bag. You’re thankful she doesn’t show you <em>that</em> photo. </p><p>“Do you know him?” she asks, after giving you time to digest. </p><p>“No” you answer, “although I’ve heard of him. His family is old money rich. They have mining and oiling companies down in Texas” </p><p>She nods, turning to look at Agent Hotchner. </p><p>“Did you ever meet him?” she asks.</p><p>“No” you respond again, “I never heard his name pronounced around my house. Or the Anderson’s” </p><p>“Then, how do you know who he is?” Agent Morgan asks. His tone irks you and you can't help it:</p><p>“You get briefed about rich people’s lives once you get your own sack of money. Comes with a brochure and a home addresses like entering Disney Land” you retort, “what do <em>you</em> think?” </p><p>Agent Rossi plants a hand over your shoulder, a silent warning that you’ve let your emotions get the best of you. </p><p>“Sorry” you reply at once, taking a deep breath. You’re still mid flight and they can still decide to launch you out – <em>in your mind</em>. </p><p>“It’s impossible not to hear about the Devlins. They’re like...-“ you have a hand around, looking up to the ceiling of the plane, “-like the Kennedys. If you don’t know about them, you basically live under a rock.” You glance at the photo again. </p><p>“Or in my case,” you let out, “you don’t belong in<em> their</em> social circles.” </p><p>Agent Prentiss and Jareau nod. The screen in front of you turns on, making you jump. The face of a blonde woman, wearing cheetah print glasses takes over its entirety. You both look at each other in surprise. </p><p>“Oh-“ she lets out, then “<em>oh</em>!” in a more excited tone. Before you know what is happening, she starts rambling, words cascading from her lips in a continuous stream: </p><p>“Ohmygod, I know who you are! You created that app! SafeCity! I am a <em>rigorous </em>user of it whenever I go out for drinks with friends and I get absolutely wasted!” </p><p>Her cheery attitude catches you off guard, and a laugh bubbles up your throat. “Uh… thanks?” </p><p>“I admire you<em> so </em><em>so</em><em> much </em>” she says, “that app saves lives! I cannot believe I get to meet you – and the fact you are now leading the market in app and technolog...“ </p><p>“Uh, yeah. I don’t really know anything about apps or computers. It was just an idea and my husband took over and made it real” </p><p>At the mention of <em>husband </em>her face falls as she finally connects the dots on who you are. And you do too – that they still think you’re a serial killer. </p><p>“Garcia” Agent Hotchner’s voice is a reprimand and you note it too, “let’s talk later” </p><p>“Right!” She says, face now completely flushed red, and just like that – she disappears from the screen, laptop turning black. They glance at one another before Agent Hotchner speaks again: </p><p>“That’s all” he says, “you can return to your seat” </p><p>You decide to oblige – solely out of respect for Agent Rossi. They continue chatting amongst themselves, huddled around that table and laptop – all inaudible for you. They make an effort to keep their voices down and it’s frustrating in a mean, childish way. Maybe, because it feels like you’re being left out in a very petty method.</p><p>You take to picking at your nails, then scrolling meaninglessly through your phone. Until you rest on looking out the window, cursing yourself for not bringing earphones. It feels like hours and somehow their whispers bring you into a quiet lull, making you doze off into a half-sleep state.</p><p>You jolt awake, alarmed, when Agent Hotchner sits next to you, on the other side of the aisle. You straighten up, angry he’d caught you sleeping. And then, for not apologizing over it. </p><p>“We need to set some ground rules” he says, frown deeper than ever, refusing to look at you. </p><p>“Ground rules?” you repeat dumbly, only to irritate him. </p><p>It works.</p><p>“if you’re to help us” he says, words sounding strained and forceful, as if he's being threatened to say voice them aloud, “you will do as I say” </p><p>You wave a hand, motioning for him to continue. </p><p>“You don’t go anywhere without one of us following.” </p><p>Your eyebrows shoot up. “So, I’m being babysat?” </p><p>“Either you accept that or you head back to Virginia with the first plane out” </p><p>You raise both hands up in defeat. “Fine. Will I be bottle fed too?” </p><p>He ignores the question completely. “I don’t want to see you in crime scenes or police precincts – chatting up to police officers or other agents. You hear me?” </p><p>“Police officers?” you repeat with a laugh “what, you think I’m going to be trying to make friends?” </p><p>“Or” he proposes, “you deal with having Officer Erin guarding your house 24/7 back home.” </p><p>“Officer <em>who?”</em> </p><p>Then it hits you. Erin – you realize. The same officer who you’d charmed into letting you sneak inside back in the police department after he'd questioned you. <em> Oh</em>, <em>he’d noticed it all. </em> </p><p>“No showing up unannounced anywhere” </p><p>You stifle a laugh, “Would you rather I wear a leash around my neck, so you can control everything I do?” </p><p>Instead of saying something opposing or taking it as an insult like you’d meant it to – he cocks an eyebrow, turning to stare at you head on.</p><p>With an elbow resting over the arm of the seat, he rests his chin over his knuckles, gaze unwavering. It makes your smile freeze in your face. </p><p>“I’m<em> joking</em>” you say for good measure and <em>just in case</em><strong>.</strong> “I’m not giving you any ideas” </p><p>There’s a hint of a smile playing on his lips, and you look away first, that same unfamiliar feeling starting to bubble in your stomach. </p><p>“A <em>bell</em> wouldn’t be bad” he says, his usually flat baritone voice sounding somewhat mischievous. </p><p>“Shut up” you shoot back, palming at the nape of your neck, feeling uncomfortable under his stare. “So, what do I get to do in turn? Can I set my own ground rules?” </p><p>His face is back to a scowl, “no” </p><p>“Fine. Suggestions, then?” </p><p>He doesn’t respond, so you continue. </p><p>“I have an apartment in New York that is sitting empty. The unit can stay there while you investigate, and you won’t have to sleep uncomfortably in cheap motels. You get to also submerge headfirst in my life there since I spent my time between Washington and New York when I got married.” </p><p>“Who says they’re cheap?” He asks, seemingly forgetting the second part of your offer.</p><p>“Please” you roll your eyes, “Gideon eyeing my villa in Washington a year ago was enough to let me know how much you suffer in the field. And there’s enough floors so we won’t have to run into each other. You can also pretend I don’t exist” </p><p>You glance at him, “That’s what I’m going to do, <em>personally</em>” </p><p>“I don’t see how-“ </p><p>“Think it over” you interrupt before he rejects straight away, “at least ask for their opinion first.”</p><p>You bop your head to where the others sit, not hiding the fact they’re all looking at both of you unashamed. </p><p>“And you can continue your surveillance over me. My bedroom is on the second floor so you will hear me if I decide to run out in the middle of the night to stab someone” at his surprised look, you add quickly –“not that I do. I <em>don’t</em> do that.” </p><p>“Fine” he lets out at last, “I’ll propose your kind suggestion to the others” </p><p>You frown at him – did he just call you <em>kind? </em>But he doesn’t let you ask as he stands up, going back to his place.  </p><p>Funny, you think, how you’d <em>willingly</em> ended up around law enforcement. </p><p>---- </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ok yall im gonna disappear in a bit bcs i have to work for uni (for real lmao) but thnx for reading!!!! and lemme know what u think ofc<br/>(also not me realizing v late that quantico and washington are so near one another sdhqdskdk u can just tell i dont live in the usa so im sorry if the geography is slightly off im literally googling stuff here lmao)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Scorned wife</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Back in NYC you confront the past you'd left behind.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey all!! im back writing bcs i finished my work 😉😉<br/>pls excuse the length of this chapter and it being mostly filler for the next ones - we bonding with the BAU members one by one here!!<br/>and we building up the angst back up againnn</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Since the team was a member short, Hotch had left JJ to head to the precinct on her own while he joined Reid to the medical examiner. </p><p>He watches the other man lean down, the body of the 37-years old victim exposed midriff up as they study it. Reid lets out a low hum as his eyes peruse the stab wounds on the torso. </p><p>“These are rather clean” he says, voicing the same thoughts Hotch had stirring in his head. </p><p>“Yes” says the M.E – a young man in his late 20s, “We think they were done post-mortem” </p><p>“And they’re also hesitation marks” Reid says, turning to Hotch, “That’s a huge change in M.O” </p><p>Hotch nods at him, his eyes now focused on the covered head of the corpse. </p><p>“And the bullet wound?” he ask the young man.</p><p>He shakes his head, reaching at the body as Reid takes a step back. He removes the cloth and they both note the horrendous gaping hole on the neck as they’d seen on the photos.  </p><p>“The gunshot is the cause of death” the M.E says. </p><p>“The angle is different too” Hotch addresses Reid, “the shooter is significantly taller than the victim.” </p><p>“He points to the back of the head and ends down towards his neck” Reid completes. </p><p>Hotch shoves his hands in his pockets, as the M.E covers the entire body. Reid flips through the pages he’d handed them when they got in, and then turns to look at Hotch again. </p><p>“I don’t think this is the same person” </p><p> --</p><p> </p><p>“You got the first shift?” you ask Agent Rossi. </p><p>He’s been abnormally quiet the entire ride from the airport, and you imagine it’s because he’s here, babysitting you, instead of doing his job. </p><p>“He gave you shit because it was your idea right?”  </p><p>He sighs, “yes” and the car comes to a halt, right in front of your NYC condo, next to Central Park. He lets out a low whistle as he looks at the entrance – marked in gold yellow, with a doorman outside. </p><p>“I thought you didn’t self-indulge” he says. </p><p>“I don’t” you say, “This is the first job I took when I left the Ozarks” </p><p>“As a doorman?” </p><p>“As an on-call housecleaner” you reply. Once he parks the car, you both head out. </p><p>“How did you make that drastic change to end up as an owner?” </p><p>“The lady who took me in,” <em>out of pity</em>, but you don’t say it aloud, “she passed away and left it to me. She had no children” </p><p>At his raised eyebrows you add, rolling your eyes, “I know how that sounds, but she was older and it was a heart condition. You can dig up the files if you want” </p><p>He chuckles, and you both mumble greetings at the doorman who lets you inside.</p><p>“Ma’am” he says, tipping his hat. </p><p>“Hey, George. The ladies treating you well?” </p><p>The old man laughs, sending a wink your way. When you’re in the elevator you feel Agent Rossi still staring so you continue your story. </p><p>“I ran out of money pretty quickly when I left the Ozarks. I picked a job at this diner and they let me go because they were overcrowded” –<em> and they didn’t like when you answered badly the male customers catcalling you while in the job – </em> something you don’t say to Agent Rossi. “I was quickly nearing the end of my lease in a shitty rat hole of an apartment and then a friend suggested this job. As a cleaner.” </p><p>You let out a huff at the memory. You with your vulgar language, having known only to be weary around people all your life – were so out of your depth it was stupid how you even thought to stand a chance. </p><p>“I was cursing like a sailor even at the job interview” you put a hand to your forehead, rubbing the skin for comfort, “I was for sure going to be kicked out, let alone get the job. And then this very old woman shows up, entering like she owned the place, cutting my interview in half. I directed my anger at her – because I was ashamed I’d ruined the opportunity for myself, <em> which I did. </em>” You glance at the agent, and he’s got attentive eyes, hanging onto your every word,</p><p>“But then she made up some excuse and got the man to come out, handle some business. And when we were left alone she told me she’d train me” </p><p>His eyebrows go up. You laugh. </p><p>“I thought it was a codename and that she was running some kind of shady establishment, so<em> of course</em>, I yelled at her.” </p><p>Rossi laughs too. The elevator doors slide open before you and you step out as he follows beside you. </p><p>“And yet she was so <em>eerily</em> calm, talking very eloquently and explaining how I wasn’t ignorant or foul-mouthed, but I just needed some guidance in life” </p><p>You never stop to think how easy it’s become to talk to him – this man who’s part of a team who thinks you’re a serial killer. It just sort of sneaks up on you<em> . </em> </p><p>“And she trained me, taught me how to talk and behave like her. She taught me patience. So, when I insisted for another job interview, I got it.” </p><p>“Wow,” Agent Rossi breathes out, “that’s nice of her” </p><p>“It really was”, you say, chest constricting at the memory of her, of lady Carol Aird – the old lesbian woman who’d approached you with the intention to rebuild your life. She'd been like a mother figure. And you hadn’t left her side even through her illness.</p><p>Agent Rossi doesn’t speak, noting the tears prickling at your eyes but not coming down. You halt in front of the door, noting the many shoes outside – a pair of red Louboutin, mixed with sneakers and other high heels. He turns to you, quizzical look on his eyes. </p><p>“You were expecting company?” </p><p>“No” you reply, frowning upon recognizing the shoes, “What probability do I have in convincing you to wait outside?” </p><p>He shakes his head. </p><p>“Right” you mutter, “forgot, we need to follow <em>the professor</em>’s rules.” </p><p>With his eyebrows raised at your nickname for Agent Hotchner, you push the door open, not bothering to knock. As you’d assumed the place is trashed. Bottles all over the wooden floors, and so many pizza boxes and take outs you can’t even count them.</p><p>The smell is another thing too – like a mixture of cigarettes, body odor, and weed. The radio is on, and loud rock music plays in the living room. You note the clothes all over the couches and the sofa and you focus all your energy in calming yourself down. The radio gets cut off as the news start playing. </p><p><em> “Hello New York! </em><em>Today is looking out to be sunny, </em> <em> so </em> <em> be sure to take your sunscreen </em> <em>  when going out. In other news, the police informs its citizens to  </em> <em> contact them if they see </em><em>any </em><em>strange individuals </em> <em>  as the Bachelor Snatcher might have been seen- </em> <em> “ </em> </p><p>The bathroom door opens and a loud groan fills the room – footsteps echoing until they reach you. She’s staring at the radio, frustrated over the music being cut off but freezes when she sees you. </p><p>“Therese” you say first, and her surprise is evident on her face.</p><p>Her eyes go wide, mouth slightly open. Then she tackles you to the ground, squeezing you into a big hug. </p><p>“Jesus, woman. I thought I’d never see you again!” her laugh fills your ears but it does not dissipate your anger. </p><p>“I told you to call me when you got out!” </p><p>She lets you go at last, halting when she notes the agent beside you. </p><p>“Please tell me you’re not here to evict me” </p><p>“I might as well be” you snap, “what are you doing here?” </p><p>She takes a step back at your attitude. Agent Rossi’s eyes are fixed on her – slim figure, short brown hair to the jawline and dark eyes, and beautiful. And you feel what he’s thinking as well – worried about whatever he’s deducing.  </p><p>“I told you to stay part-time not to live in my apartment” </p><p>“Who’s this?” she ignores your statement, hands on her hips as she stares at the man beside you. </p><p>“Agent Rossi, this is my friend, the one who told me about the job – Therese Belivet.” </p><p>Her face goes white at <em>agent. </em> </p><p>“Therese” you start as Rossi holds out a hand for her to shake, “this is Agent Rossi, an FBI agent who thinks I murdered my husband and several rich men around the area.” </p><p>She winces, “<em>Jesus</em>, I forgot about the Andersons completely” she says, shaking his hand, “and about Nathan”  </p><p>“How so? Does it happen that often around here?” he asks.</p><p>Therese shakes her head, “no, I just never liked the man, so it was easy to pretend he never existed.” </p><p>“Therese-“ you warn.</p><p>She is so unpredictable in whatever she says so it was granted she was going to let out something <em>bad. </em> </p><p>“Oh,” Agent Rossi exhales, “please, do expand” </p><p>“No-“ he shoots you a look and you retreat – might just head to prison yourself at this point.</p><p>Could probably turn to be a better alternative to whatever Therese will say. Her eyes dart between you and him, and she crosses her arms. </p><p>“I hate snobs” she says and you stare at her blankly.</p><p><em>That’s all she's going to say? </em> </p><p>“That man acted like owning and driving a Ferrari meant you were exempt from treating people with respect.” </p><p>“So, he treated you badly?” </p><p>“I never met the guy” she says, “but his friends frequented my bar. You can tell what a man is like from his friends” </p><p>“That’s very true” He says, glancing your way. “what’s your bar?” </p><p>“it’s a strip club in the meatpacking district.” Your discomfort expands the more she talks, “I work as a bartender now” words directed to you with a proud smile. </p><p>“Ahh,” Agent Rossi says only. “so you didn’t approve of their marriage?” </p><p>Therese pauses, as if mulling it over and you feel like screaming – out of all the things in the world, she’s asked to give her opinion over<em> Nathan.</em> And you knew her opinion on men like  him – you’d both talked over it for hours at a time. </p><p>Men who were born and lived with privileges, never thinking about what the other side did. Men who never thought about anyone else but themselves. Yet you’d never planned to fall in love with one,  and  she never accepted it. She’d refused to come to your impromptu wedding too.  Not to mention she knew  <em> everything </em>about him. </p><p>“I don’t approve of any man for her” she says looking your way – you’d both stopped keeping in touch after Nathan. And her letters had reached you only after getting locked up.</p><p>“Nobody deserves her” It tugs at your heartstrings – that even after all this time she doesn’t resent you over it, even though you’d been the one to cut off all contact first. But you can’t enjoy the moment as you want to.</p><p>You can’t apologize to her and tell her that she’d always been right about Nathan. Not while Agent Rossi is in the room. Agent Rossi who’s heard her confession too – and who probably thinks your friend hated your husband and could have potentially helped you commit the murder.</p><p>Or worse - as someone that could be considered <em>scorned </em>over your marriage with another person. Your words are rushed: </p><p>“She’s straight” you say and she reads the worry in your eyes fast. </p><p>“Oh, yeah. I have two children with my partner of 5 years” </p><p>Agent Rossi nods then “well, thanks for being honest” </p><p>“Of course” she says, then turned to you: “and I needed a place to rest peacefully away from toddlers.” </p><p>Your mind works fast – wheels turning in your head as you come to a conclusion immediately. </p><p>“Why don’t you move in?” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“I mean it, move with your family. It’s all paid, so you wouldn’t be killing yourself over trying to pay it off.” </p><p>“Are you joking?” </p><p>“No-“ you narrow the distance, “you can transform the ridiculous guest rooms upstairs into kids’ rooms. And you have your own bathroom here.” </p><p>“But it’s Carol’s house” she says softly, “It’s <em>Carol’s. </em>All your memories of her-“ </p><p>You interrupt her before she says something unnecessarily private -not around Agent Rossi,  “I can’t live here. I can’t even digest 2 hours in here. So, just take it over. I will send you the house deed and turn it to your name” </p><p>“You would do that?” she’s teary-eyed, caught by the gesture. </p><p>“I’m honestly being investigated for murder” you blurt out, not caring if Agent Rossi listens to your next words, “And I’d rather you own this, then the <em>fucking </em>state” </p><p>She laughs at that, and pulls you in for another hug, this time you don’t protest. After a short time of exchanging contact information that had been lost once you’d moved to Washington, you get out. </p><p>Back in the elevator, feeling helpless under the emotions that want to spill out, you turn to Agent Rossi. </p><p>“Tell me the truth-“ you blurt out, “are you pretending to be my emotional soundboard as a way to get to know everything about me, to profile me?” </p><p>“I don’t need to trick you to profile you. And profilers already know everything” </p><p>His eyes rest over the elevator buttons, “Does that worry you?” </p><p>You exhale sharply.</p><p>“Not really.” You admit, “I’ve been trying to get people to come to terms with both sides of me for all my life” </p><p>“I take it then that your husband didn’t know about your past?” </p><p>And maybe it’s because you feel your guard is almost down around him, and that you fear he’s close to the truth more than the others.</p><p>“No”  </p><p>And that is how you justify to yourself the reason for lying to him. He doesn’t reply. Once out the building and into the car, he dials someone on the phone. </p><p>“Guess your suggestion to stay in your New York apartment is not viable anymore” </p><p>Oh, <em>shit. </em>You’d completely forgotten about it. </p><p>“Sorry” you mumble. He waves a hand around as if swatting away your apology. </p><p>“Garcia, can you call the motel – we need to book another room” </p><p>The woman on the other side must have asked something, because he speaks again, looking at you. </p><p>“Yes, near Hotch’s room is perfect” </p><p><em> Okay, you deserved that –  </em>after promising him, and the rest of them, the luxury condo. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>“This doesn’t make sense” Prentiss says, dropping over the chair, her entire body tensed in frustration from the work, and the countless cups of coffee Hotch had seen her inhale in the last 2 hours. </p><p>They’d been stuck on the fact that nothing seemed to link the other murders to the one in New York. There was no apparent connection even after JJ had finished interview the victim’s family.</p><p>They’d only discovered the man had been rowdy, irresponsible and had refused to even pay alimony to the ex-wife. Reid stops circling the table and stares up at Hotch – that same look he always got whenever he’d figured something that’s escaped them all. </p><p>“What if there really is <em>no</em> connection?” </p><p>“What do you mean, <em>genius?”  </em>Morgan mocks, “we literally all said that there is none.” </p><p>“Yes,” he says, and goes back to the boards, “but we never took it for granted – that this is a completely different person.” </p><p>“You mean, scratch what we did so far?” Prentiss asks. </p><p>“No, no, I mean. <em>This</em> doesn’t fit victimology. This is a completely new person.” </p><p>“A new person?” JJ asks, “you mean, a partner?” </p><p>“No,” Hotch says, and he blames it to the fact they’d been far too long in the same room, all of them starting to get loopy, repeating each other’s words like a broken record, “a <em>new killer </em>” </p><p>Reid nods fervently, ripping out the photos of all the previous victims next to Devlin’s photo. He removes even the geographical profile he’d compiled, placing them all over the table behind him. </p><p>“Okay,” Prentiss lets out, “so, we just have one murder to solve, then”. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>With nothing else to be done around New York, you and Agent Rossi head to the police department. You feel itchy in a weird way when you get out of the car – looking over your shoulders as if Agent Hotchner was going to show up and yell at you for disobeying his rules. You tell so to Agent Rossi, who laughs. </p><p>“We’re not here for this” he says, as he locks the car and he points behind – to a 24H open diner, “come on, they’re waiting for us.” </p><p>He wants you to eat with all of them – with the <em>entire </em>team? You’d half expected them to give you food like a prisoner - shoving it in and out from underneath your door or throw it to you in the car. You hadn’t even assumed you’d spend time with all of them together after the plane, with everyone being so on edge around you.</p><p>Agent Rossi opens the door for you, letting you go first. You note the group right away. Near the windows overlooking outside, they’ve sized up a good amount of territory, loud and boisterous as they read the menus together. The sight of it all makes you freeze in place – so different to what you’d seen this morning in the plane. </p><p>They’d been so composed and brief when addressing you. But with each other, huddling over two tables in a booth, their faces are happy and the laughter carries out to where you stand. Agent Rossi moves ahead, not waiting and they all mock him as soon as he plops down next to Agent Reid. You near the table in small steps, afraid their mood will change with the press of a button. </p><p>But it doesn’t. </p><p>“You really got us with that luxury condo” Agent Jareau says at you, smiling. “Rossi will never forgive you.” </p><p>“Ah, sorry” you mumble as Agent Prentiss looks at you too, “I caught a squatter and I couldn’t kick her out” </p><p>Agent Jareau nods, and scooches a bit, leaving you a place near to her.  </p><p>“That was not his side of the story” she says when you sit down, “He said you betrayed him, snatched the goods right in front of his eyes” </p><p>You laugh at that, “guess rich people can’t conform to normal taste, huh?” </p><p>To your surprise, Agent Prentiss, who’s always been cold towards you, laughs on the other side of the table.  </p><p>“Rossi doesn’t like sleeping in motels, no” she says. </p><p>“Admittedly it’s the worst part of the job” Agent Rossi says with a frown, picking up a menu to skim over. </p><p>“Yes, that’s the <em>worst </em>part” Agent Prentiss retorts.  </p><p>“Guess how many times he’s switched rooms when we were out in the field” Agent Jareau says to you. </p><p>“uh-” they all look to you, small smiles still lingering, and you hesitate, afraid you will say the wrong thing and they will all change in a heartbeat, “twice?” </p><p>Agent Rossi peers at you from over the menu in his hands.</p><p>“Thank you for not indulging them” </p><p>“More like thousands of times” Agent Prentiss exclaims, “literally thousands” </p><p>“Actually,” Agent Reid pipes up, “It’s been 48 times and a half” </p><p>Agent Rossi’s glare is directed to him - “You counted them?”</p><p>The other man nods. </p><p>“What’s the <em>half?”  </em>you ask. </p><p>“This one time in Los Angeles,” Agent Reid muses, smile splitting his face, “he complained so much, they were ready to throw him out, only for Hotch to jump in and-” </p><p><em> Right, </em>you notice for the first time, <em>that’s why communication is so easy</em> - Agent  Hotchner is not here. It’s embarrassing it's taken you so long to even realize when that man’s presence is <em>literally</em> felt in the air. </p><p>“- convince the hotel management not to do so.” </p><p>Even Agent Morgan – the <em> other  </em>person in your haters club – is not present. </p><p>“I was not about to be kicked out. They had the<em> worst</em> service” </p><p>“Did you let Garcia know” Agent Prentiss calls out, “so she doesn’t mistakenly book us there again, if we go back to L.A?” </p><p>Agent Rossi nods, and a waiter finally approaches you. You scramble to pick up a menu, reading quickly as the others relay their orders to her. You say the first thing your eyes land on. </p><p>“A cheeseburger will be fine” </p><p>“Oh, make that two”, Agent Jareau says to the woman.</p><p>She nods, picking up the menus and heading back. She returns with cokes and water that the group ordered for everyone. And it doesn’t take long for the food to be done – and you can’t help but notice Agent Jareau text beside you, as the plates are spread around in the table. </p><p>“How was your day in the city?” Agent Prentiss asks, focus of attention switching fluently to you and the man before you. </p><p>“It was good” he replies, “how was yours?” </p><p>Just as Agent Prentiss is about to respond, they all turn their attention to your left. </p><p>“That food looks delicious” Agent Morgan says, standing beside you – but he’s not the reason for their change in demeanor.</p><p>You turn, and Agent Hotchner stands next to him, both having just arrived. While the other’s eyes rest on the food, Agent Hotchner stares pointedly at you. It makes you almost want to stand up and head out – and it irks you. </p><p>“If you want to say something just do it" you blurt out, bopping your head to the plate in front of you.  </p><p>“Thought you were the caviar type” he says flatly.</p><p>You stare at him dumbfounded as he sits down before you, Agent Rossi making room for him on the couch.</p><p><em>Did he just make an attempt at a joke? A normal joke? </em> </p><p>He pulls in the other plate with a cheeseburger and his frowns deepens when he realizes you’d both unknowingly chosen the same meal.  </p><p>“Rest easy, I don’t know the chef here” you grunt, reaching over the table for the salt near his left hand.</p><p>“Unless you want me to be your taster” you say, sprinkling salt over the fries. </p><p>He shakes his head, his shoulders untensing as his lips are pulled in a tentative smile at your words. You hadn’t realized the table had gone quiet, watching the both of you, until they laugh. The chatter around the table slowly starts to pick up once again. </p><p>“I’d want to taste that, actually” Agent Jareau says looking at your cheeseburger. You push the plate of fries between motioning for her to take one when you see the Ceasar salad she’s ordered. </p><p>“I’m on a stupid diet” she says apologetically, “It’s only for dinner time,<em> I swear </em>” </p><p>“Please” you say, “I will never be able to finish all of this, either way” </p><p>When you turn to your meal, you note Agent Hotchner still staring, not having touched his food yet. This man really thinks you'd poisoned his food?</p><p>“Oh, Jesus” you let out, rolling your eyes.</p><p>You stretch both hands around the burger picking it up and holding it up to your eyelevel. He watches you take a huge bite – eyebrows arching up as you place the burger back down on the plate.</p><p>Your cheeks are big and round with the amount of food – but you don’t break eye contact as you chew it all down. When you swallow you narrow your eyes at him. </p><p>“See?<em> Not </em>poisoned ” </p><p>He smiles – a foreign sight to your eyes as small dimples appear at the sides of his face, and cheekbones protrude high. You didn’t even know he could do that<em> - </em> <em> casually </em>smile. You’d come to accept that he had only 1 emotion – frowning. No, scratch that – frowning<em> and</em> yelling. </p><p>“I was just going to ask to pass the salt” </p><p>You feel the back of your neck and ears heat up, looking at the salt that’s on the table, tucked between your plate and your chest. You pick it up, but before you can leave it over the small surface in the middle of your two plates, he takes it off your hands – fingers brushing against yours.</p><p>The saltshaker looks ridiculously tiny in his hand, like a miniature of itself. You don’t realize you're staring until he holds out the small thing again with two fingers, thumb now pressed at the bottom and index over the top.</p><p>You gulp, shaking your head, and take a huge sip of your coke. You <em> couldn’t have just </em>  been staring at this man’s hand – that's just about the <em>most </em> ridiculous thing in the universe. Blame it to spending 3 months locked up.  </p><p>The conversation around the table never steers back to work – and maybe Agent Hotchner had given them those same rules as you. To your surprise, it’s not strained or nothing of the sorts. Even Agent Prentiss asks you a couple of innocent questions. And you talk to her about the weather in New York, and the hot places to be during the summer – and she tells you she’d spent some time during university in the city.</p><p>When the bill arrives, Agent Hotchner pays for everyone, the waitress thanking him profusely as she notes the tip as well. You watch them all get up slow and steady, ordering coffees to go as well. They all leave one by one, while you remain seated in place, watching through the window as they head back to the police precinct. </p><p>“I hope you don’t mind I got you a coffee”  </p><p>You turn to look at the cup before you and at Agent Prentiss taking the place in front of you.<em> Next babysitting shift </em> apparently. It’s maybe the tiredness, and the nervousness you’d felt at first when you’d seen them all together – but your body is drained, and your words are unguarded. </p><p>“What did you do to get punished?” you ask. </p><p>She lets out a huff of air, leaning back on her seat, “Drank too much coffee” she answers, “One more and I was going to be able to move as fast as a hummingbird” </p><p>A laugh escapes you at her words. </p><p>“Guess I was freaking everyone out” she crosses her arms over her chest, looking too much like a pouty child who’s been placed on timeout, “Fucking nerds” she mumbles, quiet enough to almost miss. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>It’s past 11pm and Dave had definitely brought a newfound energy to the group – fresh eyes bringing forth suspects they hadn’t thought of.</p><p>Starting from the ex-wife who – as Garcia had discovered – hadn't been paid in the last 4 months. Garcia also finds out she’s been struggling with a job since a week ago, after being fired from her last one as a secretary. He leaves Reid and Morgan to discuss with her, as he motions to Dave to step outside. He doesn’t have to ask a thing because Dave reads his mind. </p><p>“A friend of hers had moved into the condo without her knowledge” he says, “Nothing suspicious, though she wasn’t too excited over her marriage.” </p><p>At his friend’s risen eyebrows, Dave adds, “she’s <em>married </em> with kids. It’s only because they cut off contact.” </p><p>“How so?” </p><p>“She knew her past – he didn’t. I’m assuming she didn’t want both worlds to mix” </p><p>Hotch nods, thinking it over. </p><p>“And the husband doesn’t know about her past.” </p><p>For Hotch, that’s a starting point, <em>at last</em>. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>At midnight, they all give up, heading out to the motel – Prentiss and you doing the same in a different car. Luckily it isn’t too far away, so when you all meet again in the parking lot, heading one by one to the reception desk – no other words are exchanged as keys are passed around.</p><p>The hall clears out fast and in silence, and you’re left with Agent Hotchner. You breathe out – of course<em> now</em> he’s the babysitter. Shortest shift ever too, since he only walks with you out and up the stairs. He watches you turn the key in the door, but instead of walking in, you step back. </p><p>“Aren’t you going to check I don’t have people under my bed or something?”  </p><p>He doesn’t reply, choosing to enter your room instead, and you trail behind, leaving the door open. He checks underneath the bed first – maybe because of your words, then the bathroom, turning lights on as he goes, stopping then in front of the odd-colored wardrobe. </p><p>“Oh no, you found it” you exhale, dropping the pitch of your voice low to a dramatic level, “<em>not the clothes’ hangers” </em> </p><p>He’s disgruntled when he opens it and finds nothing but clothes’ hangers – his whole actions making you laugh.</p><p>You’d paid no attention to your surroundings so you do now, dropping the bag on the ground with a thud. The room is small, a double bed smack in the middle, weird psychedelic art framed and hanged on every wall. </p><p>“Jesus<em> fuck </em>” you breathe out, “are they trying to hypnotize you into overstaying?” </p><p>“Only way to distract you from the weird spots on the bedsheets” he replies. Your eyes go to the bed. </p><p>“<em>Oh </em> , fuck, no-” you pull out aggressively the cover, stripping the bed in half, finding – as he’d said – white sheets with weird discolored spots all across, “oh, no, no, no” you groan loudly, regretting laughing at Agent Rossi. </p><p>“Princess and the Pea?” he replies, and you hadn’t expected him to still be in the room.</p><p>He looks amused. It’s not his fault, when you’d looked almost crazy, turning the covers and hurling curse words at the bed. </p><p>“Trust me,” you say, trying to make the bed once again. If the sheets were that bad, then you’d sleep over the covers, “I’ve slept in worse places.” </p><p>His eyebrows remain up, studying your movements. </p><p>“They don’t wash the covers” he says simply. </p><p>“What?!” </p><p>He laughs, the sound of it catching you by surprise. Here, alone, no other noise around to muffle it, you can hear distinctly how it drops a pitch lower and it's softer than his normal baritone voice.  </p><p>“Then how am I supposed to sleep?” you ask, trying to distract your mind from all the weird thoughts that have been going on inside you since dinner. It’s all because you’re tired - <em>yes, that's the only reason</em>. </p><p>“You bring your own sheets” he says flatly, as if simply stating a fact, and not something extremely foolish, “well, good night.” </p><p>With that, he leaves, shutting your bedroom door behind him. Leaving you to decide on your own if you should just stay awake tonight or risk it all and sleep only to have a boiling hot shower the next day.</p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>You wake up early before the sun has risen yet – the sound of a door shutting so close to you it jolts you up. Scanning quickly the room, you lay back onto the bed with a heavy sigh. Of course, this motel has paper-thin walls as well. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself back to sleep but it’s helpless.</p><p>Sleep had crawled over you without intention as you'd refused to close your eyelids, over the dirty bed. You stand up, grabbing your wallet and cigarettes and putting on your shoes. You unlock the door, shuffling your feet as quietly as you can, and turn the door handle. You step outside, turning to close the door behind – eyes lingering over the familiar figure of a woman on the ground below as she goes inside a room in the ground floor. </p><p>“What are you doing?” </p><p>You jump, your entire skin erupting in goosebumps at once, keys dropping to the floor. Agent Hotchner stands under his doorframe, leaning against it. </p><p>“<em>Fuck </em>” you exhale, “why are you always around? <em>Jesus</em>.” </p><p>He’s changed into a white tee and pajama bottoms, and his black hair is not aggressively licked back as usual, few strands coming to fall over his forehead.</p><p>He looks taller standing there motionless, even in his<em> stupid </em> blue pajama pants. You connect the dots – you have no other room nearby but his so he must have been the reason to you waking up...</p><p>And the woman-</p><p>“Are you sleeping with Agent Prentiss?” you ask, recognizing the figure as hers.</p><p><em> Is he? </em> </p><p>He doesn’t react, but asks again. “What are you doing out?” </p><p>“I was going to get a water bottle at the vending machine” you splutter. “Am I <em>allowed</em> to drink water?” </p><p>Instead of answering he heads back to his room, leaving you perplexed. You have no time to dwell as he returns quickly, holding out a few coins, “get me one too.” </p><p>Ok, so you’re the<em> butler</em> now? </p><p>“It’s on me” you say, solely because you don’t want to accidentally touch him again, “can I go alone, then? Or are you going to chaperone?” </p><p>He shrugs, and you descend the stairs. He lingers on the small hall overlooking the parking lot, elbows perched over the railing as he watches you approach the vending machines. </p><p>You wave a hand at him when you make it to one, showing him your back as you put coins in and press the appropriate button. Once a bottle is out you take big gulps, draining the bottle in a second, discarding it in the bin once done, and you get two more bottles.</p><p>Marching back, you notice he’s moved to stand before your door for a better angle on you. Perching a cigarette between your lips, bottles underneath your armpit, you make your way up the stairs. You hold out a bottle once you reach him, and he takes it, eyes lingering on your cigarette. </p><p>“Those will ruin your teeth” he says in a monotone voice. </p><p>You light the cigarette by holding it with a thumb and middle finger - just to flash him, “<em>Really</em>?” </p><p>"Since when have you been having problems sleeping?" he asks.</p><p>It almost sounds innocuous but you run it through your mind. Like you'd answer <em>that</em>.</p><p>"Nice try" you mutter.</p><p>Because <em>murderers</em> don't have a peaceful sleep.</p><p>He scoffs, shaking his head. Silence overtakes you as you lean over the railing beside him, but it’s not uncomfortable as you smoke and he doesn’t bother you either. Minutes stretch by like that, no other sound but that of the birds as they fly overhead, and distant cars and bikes moving faraway from where you are. </p><p>“So, why did you get divorced?” you ask, getting right to it.</p><p>The question had bounced around in your brain since noticing the lack of a wedding ring on his finger. </p><p>“Christ” he lets out, “I’m not discussing my marital problems with<em> you </em>” </p><p>“Might as well, right?” at his confused face, you add: “who better to be your therapist than someone who can be objectively honest with you?” </p><p>At his silence, you add again: “because I can’t stand you and won't hold back on criticism” </p><p>“Ah” he says then, but no other words follow. </p><p>“I hate New York” you hear yourself say, disrupting the quietude again.</p><p>“Washington is quieter, more structured.” you take another drag, longer this time, eyes closing as you feel your nerve endings stretch and loosen. </p><p>“Why did you move to Virginia then?” he asks. </p><p>You shrug, because there’s no way you can manage a short answer to that complicated question. </p><p>“For you, obviously” </p><p>“I’m flattered” he answers. With an arm resting over the railing, he turns sideways to watch you.</p><p>“Did you do it because of Elle?” </p><p>His question catches you off guard – not because of the topic but because it’s strange. </p><p>“You think I moved to Virginia, 2 years later because I was hoping to run into Elle? Like some stalker?” </p><p>“I don’t know the nature of your relationship” </p><p>“It was a one-time thing, man” you say, mirroring his same posture, “we didn’t even talk about it. Just... sort of happened. Like it does, <em>sometimes</em>, you know.” </p><p>“<em>Sometimes </em>?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow, “who else did you sleep with from my unit?” </p><p>You scoff, “Agent Gideon,<em> obviously </em>” </p><p>“<em>Aha</em>. Because of his raw magnetism, right?”  </p><p>You nod, eyes trailing the smile that seems to form excruciatingly slow over his face.</p><p>“Nothing sexier than a man throwing your father in jail. My daddy issues were<em> raging </em>” </p><p>“No, I get it” he says, nodding as well, “I slept with him too a few times, especially after closing cases. He’s a very passionate and attentive lover.”</p><p>The way his face remains steeled even through the ridiculousness of his words, makes you snort. </p><p>“I had to be physically dragged away from him at certain times” </p><p>“Because he’s hot?” you ask, arching an eyebrow.</p><p>He nods, and it’s absolutely illogical that <em> that  </em>makes you erupt in laughter. It’s your body’s way of releasing all the pent-up emotions accumulated this last week. He smirks, his eyes lingering on you as you wipe tears away.</p><p>Your own trail the cheekbones on his face, and you don’t fight the unfamiliar feeling settling inside your stomach <em>this</em> time.</p><p>His phone rings, and he picks up on the first dial, not moving away. He switches to agent-mode in a flash, as your laughter dies in your throat.</p><p>“Hotchner. Yes. Okay, go ahead. I will call the police” </p><p>At his words, doors open and shut in the floor below yours. You watch Agent Reid, Morgan, Prentiss and Rossi sprint to the cars – the latter on the phone as he looks up at you both. </p><p>“No, that’s okay. I’ll coordinate with them from here” you hear Agent Hotchner say, “And, I’ll take the<em> shift </em>” </p><p>Agent Rossi hangs up first, and they all split into two SUVs. Agent Jareau is out from her room as well, taking the other remaining car, and they all drive off.</p><p>The sun has begun to rise on the horizon and you remember where you are and <em>who</em> with - seemingly having forgotten only because of the lack of daylight.</p><p>You press the end of your cigarette to the handrail, and you're not stressed anymore - but you still don't feel like yourself. Not while he's still standing before you, not clad in his usual work attire. </p><p>"Why don't you go take a shower?" he poses it like a question but it sounds more like an order.</p><p>"I'll do what I want" you croak, wanting to get some semblance of control over yourself.</p><p>And you don't want him to get the last word in.</p><p>"I need to make a few phone calls" he says, face stern, "so stop pouting"</p><p>Your jaw drops open.</p><p>"I'm <em>not</em>-"</p><p>"You're being a brat. I'll wait outside."</p><p>
  <em>Excuse-you? </em>
</p><p>"I'm going only because I have to, not because you said it" </p><p>
  <em>Scumbag, always ordering people around.</em>
</p><p>You shut the door with force once you get inside, just out of spite. Trying to distract yourself and not linger over the heat that has taken rise over your face, you grab only the towels as you head for the bathroom.</p><p>How are you supposed to spend the rest of the day in the company of someone who believes that you've murdered your husband? And <em>not </em>lose it?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always thnx for reading!! and for the commentsssss<br/>(lemme know if theres sth u wanna see or sth u likeee)<br/>and yes the names of the women are literally taken from the movie Carol because I watched it last night and im fuckin gay over carol and therese, so i'm sorry lmao<br/>love y'all</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Cold Cold Cold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hotch realizes something new about you - and you make a risky suggestion</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Back with a v short one!! as i have to disappear for uni again lmao</p><p>song title from  Cage the Elephant</p><p>(felt a bit like Hotch was very OOC last chapter after rereading it again, so I'm gonna try to keep it on track)<br/>will promise to come back with a longer chapter  - addressing at last her marital lifee oo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hotch stares at the closed door in silence. He’d called Prentiss early in the morning to ask her what her deductions were about you only to get a confirmation of his own insofar. She’d said you opened up easily to her – talking about nothing after dinner, making easy jokes and forgetting even that you were around law enforcement, solely because you felt more at ease around women than around men. After last night, even Hotch himself had started to feel his guard down as the New York killer started to look more and more like the ex-wife of the rich divorcee. He was aware you didn’t commit <em> this </em> murder as he joked with you over the railing. And admittedly a part of him still wondered about your relationship with Agent Greenway – she was sharp, smart and direct. And he blames himself for not paying more attention to her – even now a year later after her resignation. </p><p>He calls the police chief standing with his elbows over the railing, relaying to them what Dave told him Garcia had found – the ex-wife had a child with another man while still married. The DNA tests proved it and that was why he’d stopped paying child support and alimony. It was enough of a motive. And when Garcia told them she’d just bought tickets to flee the country, they had to catch her fast. He changes into his suit quickly after coordinating with local police department, the thin walls allowing him to hear the water from your shower still running. Upon making his go-bag as well and holstering his weapon, he stops in front of your door.</p><p>20 minutes have passed so he knocks lightly, knowing the others will arrive at the precinct not long from now. Rossi calls him to confirm as such and he knocks again after hanging up. There’s no response, no insults called from the other side of the door as he expects. And he hears the water still running. He turns to look at the cars in the parking lot, he’d counted them before and he notes that apart from the SUVs the others had taken, there’s only one missing. </p><p>He knocks louder this time, right hand hovering over his gun on instinct. Hotch’s first though is that you’ve left. He’d let his guard down and you’re gone. No response again – and he’s quick, mimicking Morgan’s actions and kicking the door open with the weight of his body. </p><p>“What the <em>fuck </em>-” </p><p>You stand next to your bedside table, bathroom door still open, air tasting like almonds and shea butter, and his eyes scan quickly the room, landing over the wooden surface of the furniture near you. Your eyes widen, catching what he’s looking at too. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>One minute you’re brushing your teeth over the sink, towel wrapped tight around your body. The next you’re out, heading to your bedroom to put back the shampoo in the bag over your bed. Seconds later the door bursts open, making you jump, the shampoo falling from your hands to your feet.  </p><p>“What the fuck-” you let out, throwing another flurry of curse words at Agent Hotchner as he stands there, ready to pick up his gun. Your arms wrap around your torso, feeling exposed and bare standing in just your towel. Yet his eyes don’t linger over your figure once, too caught from whatever is on your left. You look to where he’s staring – the small army knife over your bedside table, something that had become a part of your life after finding out your father had escaped prison - and your heart drops.  </p><p>Agent Hotchner’s expression is somber, a hand over the weapon. </p><p>“It’s for self-defense-” you say too quickly but he interrupts. </p><p>“Bring it here” he orders, voice too calm, not betraying what he’s really thinking. He raises two fingers on his free hand in a beckoning gesture, a part of your mind registering it as<em> come-hither.  </em>You pick up the knife and walk to him, frowning the entire way. He takes it off your palm, pushing the suit jacket to the front to cover his gun. </p><p>“Is this all?” </p><p>“Yes” you reply. </p><p>He stares at you for a beat, then:  </p><p>“<em>All</em> weapons<em>?” </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>Yes” you repeat, standing unmoving before him. He scoffs. </p><p>“Don’t make me search your bag.” </p><p>You let out a breath – <em>how </em><em>the fuck does he know?  </em>You retreat with a tail between your legs, and scramble through the contents of your bag until you retract the pocket knife. Then, feeling too much like a child, you spill everything over the made bed, so he can see everything – your clothes, socks, and hygienic products, even your undergarments. The act of it resembling a lot like the breaches of privacy in prison. </p><p>“Happy?” </p><p>He doesn’t answer, his expression unwavering. You march back, holding out the small pocket knife for him to take. </p><p>“We’ll talk about this in the car” He says, placing both knifes in the pocket of his jacket, “I want you out in 5 minutes” </p><p>“I just got out of the shower” you retort. </p><p>“5 minutes” he steps closer, towering over you, voice strained, eyebrows pulled tight in the middle of his forehead “A minute more and I’ll drag you out <em>myself</em>” </p><p>Your body heats up at his tone of voice – <em>hating</em> everything about it as warmth floods your stomach. You say the stupidest thing you can think of, only to get under his skin. </p><p>“And if I’m still <em>not</em> dressed?” </p><p>He lowers his head down to look at you, and his voice is too much like the one from the interrogation room. His hot breath fanning over your cheek draws out a shiver, starting from the nape of your neck, trailing along your spine, ending at your toes - and you chuck it up to being almost naked before him. “Do you<em> really </em>  want to find out?"</p><p>You gulp, feeling your mouth dry up.</p><p>"I <em>said </em>five minutes.” </p><p>You don’t get to reply as he turns back on his heels, walking out, slamming the door in your face. A part of you wants to just sit down over the bed, towel wrapped around you, just to find out what would <em> really </em> happen. You’re still a woman, and there must be an ounce of shame in his body – or a teardrop of politeness to at least allow you a few more moments of privacy. But another part of you wants to be out of the motel room as soon as possible, and address the real reason you carry knives with you, worried about whatever he’s deducing. You dress quickly, hair still dripping wet over your exposed shoulders after putting on a black sleeveless dress. Carrying your go-bag, after packing, you throw the door open just to find him standing behind it.  </p><p>
  <em>Had he remained there the entire time? </em>
</p><p>He doesn’t say a word, only takes the bag from your hands aggressively, not giving you a chance to refuse. He descends the stairs and you trail behind in silence. He seems as angry as you feel. He opens the door for you before throwing the bags in the luggage compartment, then circles the car to get in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t speak even after driving off the parking lot, not even after he steers the car to the freeway. You let your mind drift off to the fact that the others are out, having found out something new about the murderer - about your father. You pick at his radio turning the volume up. There’s nothing but static and then incomprehensible sentences of police officers calling to one another. </p><p>“What are you doing?” he asks, glaring at you. </p><p>His voice makes you jolt again, “You won’t tell me anything about the investigation so I wanted to listen to the radio” </p><p>He glances at you again. </p><p>“<em>Not</em> the police radio. Normal radio.” </p><p>Agent Hotchner seems to consider it, as if running it through his head first, before he speaks again. </p><p>“His ex-wife murdered him” he says at last. </p><p>“Ex-wife?” you ask, genuinely surprised. He stops in front of red traffic lights, and watches your reaction. </p><p>“Yes. It has nothing to do with the other murders” </p><p>“Oh” you exhale, disappointment clouding your features. You’d thought the murder happening in New York meant your father had watched your press conference and was making his way slowly to Virginia. But that’s not the case anymore. </p><p>“She confessed?” </p><p>He shakes his head, “Not yet.” </p><p><em> Right</em>, he was the interrogator, most probably the others were waiting for him – hence the urgency to leave the motel. You let a moment pass, as the car starts again. </p><p>“They really are for self-defense" you say, voice confident. “I bought the army knife after I found out my father had escaped. I’m sure the blonde woman from your laptop can trace the purchase.” </p><p>You look out the window, then back to him. He only pays attention to the road ahead. </p><p>“The pocketknife is just something I had since I was young.” he doesn’t give you a sign that he’s following, so you remind him, “I worked at a strip club. I was surrounded by scumbags on the regular.” </p><p>He doesn’t react and you hate that more than anything – because you can’t read him, can’t guess what he’s thinking or if he will even take further measures.  </p><p>“I don’t know if you remember my father being a serial killer as well.” You say rolling your eyes. </p><p>After all, you’d been hiding weapons around law enforcement agents. </p><p>“At least it’s not a gun” you scoff. His eyes land on you, throwing you an icy stare and you croak out a laugh. “I’m <em>joking.” </em> </p><p>The rest of the drive is silent but tense. He parks in front of the precinct, a young female police officer standing in front. You wait inside the car as he tells her something – the woman nodding as stares at you. He returns, opening your door letting you step out. </p><p>“Agent Jareau will join you later in the diner, but for a few minutes Officer Gordon here will keep you company.” </p><p>You can’t help but note that she’s a woman – <em>did he think a male officer would be easy to manipulate</em>?  </p><p>“Officer Gordon” The woman joins you once he calls her over, “thank you again.” </p><p>“Of course, sir”, she says, eyes lingering longer than necessary over Agent Hotchner’s face. She looks almost <em>too</em> willing to do as he orders. “If there is anything else, don’t hesitate to call. I gave my phone number to Agent Jareau.”  </p><p><em> Of course, she did</em>. You grimace at the interaction, but he gives her nothing else apart from another <em>thanks,</em> as he walks inside the building – the woman watching his back the entire way. Was this woman <em>attracted </em>to him? You let out a laugh at the idea, and she throws you a look. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch feels the clinking of the knives together in his inside pocket as he strides inside the building, finding the others immediately. Reid updates him right away. </p><p>“We found the gun inside her apartment” </p><p>“Very sloppy” Morgan fills in, “I’m guessing she saw the news and tried to recreate the same murders, hoping to get away with it.” </p><p>“How did she receive the information over the gun type?” Hotch asks and Rossi bops his head towards the interrogation room. </p><p>“Prentiss is in there with her – she thinks someone from the precinct here leaked information.” </p><p><em> Or you did</em> – he thinks. But that thought is wild and baseless and he knows it too. </p><p>“Where’s JJ?” he asks, remembering he’s left you alone with officer Gordon. He doesn’t know her personally and is worried the woman will try to talk to you - god-knows where that would even lead. </p><p>“She’s with the woman's son” </p><p>Hotch follows with his eyes to where Dave points – in another room, JJ talks to a 7 year old blonde boy, her face sympathetic. </p><p>“Do you need anyone of us to get<em> her?”  </em>Dave asks with a sigh, but Hotch can’t ask that of him now. Not while taking them off the job when they’re all equally needed. He’ll just wait for JJ to be done.  </p><p>“No need. She’s across the diner with an officer.” </p><p>“Okay,” Morgan says, “then we order our coffees from there.” </p><p>Hotch nods, and marches inside the interrogation room. Prentiss gives him a nod – both of them easily falling into their routine of bad cop, good cop with just a look. </p><p> -</p><p>The woman breaks soon enough and Hotch tells the others to prepare and meet up in 20 at the airstrip. </p><p>“Who thought the <em> Bachelor Snatcher </em>would become inspiring?” Dave asks, planting himself in the chair next to him, as Hotch scribbles over the last papers to be handed over to the precinct. He’d heard the same confession Hotch and Prentiss had drawn out from the woman – the copycat killer.  </p><p>“I hate that name” Hotch says simply. </p><p>“JJ is with <em>her</em>.” </p><p>Dave studies him for a moment – Hotch feels it that he’s being too harsh, letting his bad mood affect everyone around him. </p><p>“What’s gotten to you? Last I saw you, you were almost smiling.” </p><p>Hotch shakes his head at his words, feeling that same rage that had enveloped him in your room. He <em> still </em>  can’t believe he’d let himself  hover around  you  trying to make small talk – let alone  try to make you <em>laugh </em>– out of all things. He takes the knives out from his inside pocket and throws them on the table between them. </p><p>“I found these in her room” he says. </p><p>Dave’s eyebrows go up in surprise. </p><p>“What were you doing in <em>her room?” </em> </p><p>“<em>Dave”  </em> Hotch warns, not allowing him to get sidetracked and not  wanting to address  the implication of his words, “she’s been  prancing around with <em>weapons </em>and you didn’t know. Prentiss didn’t know.  She’s had these in the <em>plane” </em> </p><p>“And you’re thinking – <em>wha</em>t? That she would turn all Wolverine and knife us all in the plane or elsewhere? We carry <em>guns</em>, Aaron.” </p><p>He only glares at Dave. </p><p>"How do you know about Wolverine?"</p><p>“I believe all women should carry one of those-“ his friends bops his head to the pocket knife, ignoring his previous question. “the army knife is a tad too much but she’s been in prison, Aaron. She’s traumatized or more – since her father is also a serial killer” </p><p>“Get to the point” Hotch barks back. </p><p>“She didn’t commit this murder” </p><p>“<em>This </em>one” he retorts, sounding like Prentiss. </p><p>“I don’t believe she killed the other bachelors either”  </p><p>Hotch drops the pen over the table, closing the files.  “You don’t have proof for her innocence” </p><p>“And you don’t have proof for your accusation either” </p><p>“So, what are you suggesting?” </p><p>Dave flashes him a smile – finally getting him where he wants. </p><p>“I think we should pay a visit to Washington. <em>If </em>she killed her husband we can delve into her life there – and if a murder happens on our stay, it would be easier to find evidence.” </p><p>“She <em>did </em>kill her husband” Hotch hears himself say aloud – that’s what his instincts are screaming at him. He just can’t prove it yet. </p><p>Dave lets out a huff, “Then let’s find something to back that up.” </p><p> ---</p><p> </p><p>Your stay with Officer Gordon is unpleasant. The woman is taciturn and she stays on her phone the entire time. And what’s stranger but predictable – Hotchner’s agents keep ordering a ridiculous amount of coffee at the diner. Agent Morgan has passed by 3 times in the last hour – not hiding the fact he’s staring at you when he orders then takes the coffees. You wonder if that is because Agent Hotchner had told him about the knives or he simply doesn't trust you with Gordon. </p><p>Then Agent Jareau switches with her, relief washing over you at seeing a familiar face. Yet she never leaves your side, even as you both step into the plane and she takes the seat next to yours. He’s increased security measures apparently – from babysitting to a bodyguard. Sometime mid-flight you head to the bathroom, feeling too closed-in by their heightened presence. Even the small space helps a bit at making you regain your composure. It all crumbles when you get out, seeing Agent Hotchner in the small hall. </p><p>“I can’t even pee <em>alone</em>?” you snap, “would you rather  I  leave the door open next time so you can be certain I really <em>went </em>for it?” </p><p>He raises a cup wordlessly and you bite your tongue, smelling the coffee wafting through the air. He returns his attention to the mug in front of him, taking a sugar pack from the counter, and stirring gently the liquid with a plastic spoon. He’s the epitome of Zen. </p><p>“I didn’t tell them about your little <em>toys </em> ” He says, back to you.</p><p><em>He didn’t? </em> </p><p>“If I did” he continues, and you hear he’s filling another cup, “they’d be much different. I don’t think they’d even let you be on this plane.” </p><p>He pours a bit of milk over the new coffee cup, next sugar. You watch it all from the side, mouth watering at the smell. </p><p>“So, why am I still on this plane?” </p><p>He turns to face you, and you note for the first time the small space in between - the same distance he'd been when confronting you in your room. You need to crane your neck to look up at him.</p><p>“We are heading to Washington state” he says and you freeze, his words pulling the rug from underneath you. <em>Washington</em> - the same place your father is.  </p><p>He takes the cup, raising it up and you move to take it. He gives you a strange look then retreats, going back to his seat. He hands the other cup to Prentiss and you’re flush with embarrassment. How did your brain register that as a <em>nice act</em> – as if he was getting you a coffee without asking? So <em> stupid</em>. You walk through the aisles then stop, an idea popping in your head. You go back until you’re standing before their table. Agents Rossi, Prentiss, Morgan and Hotchner look up – as does Agent Reid in the big sofa on your other side. Even Agent Jareau from the end of the aisle perks up, noticing the quiet that has fallen. </p><p>“I have a 5-story villa in Washington” you start, “in Seattle. It’s where my husband and I used to live together before I moved to Virginia. I never sold it, and I’m the only one who’s living there – nobody else.” You look pointedly at Agent Rossi, after your last mishap in New York with Therese. </p><p>“I don’t know where in Washington we are heading – but it’s an alternative to motels.” </p><p>Agent Rossi gives you a small smile. You direct your last sentence to Agent Hotchner, who purses his lips. </p><p>“And you’ll see I have nothing to do with these murders”  </p><p>Silence falls, and you rack your brain for other arguments you could offer – that he can observe you up close; see the same house he’d visited more than a year ago with Gideon; or that he can even get to watch you squirm in that big empty house after your husband went missing. </p><p>He speaks, halting your trail of thought. </p><p>“Okay” he says, and everyone stares at him shocked, “we’ll stay at your house.” </p><p>You look at him, mouth agape – not having expected an answer this quickly.  </p><p>“We’ll be there in six- seven hours” he says then, breaking eye contact, “a bit after midnight.” </p><p>You nod, pleased at the relieved faces of Agent Prentiss, Rossi and Reid – realizing only now that you’d wanted to get them on good graces again. You return back at your seat, feeling watched as you do. It doesn’t hit you until you’re four hours in that he will be in the same place your husband had been reported last.</p><p>You realize, dread filling you up, that he’ll dive right into your marital life – and witness firsthand the mess it had been.   </p><p>Sleep never comes to you.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always thnx for reading!!! and lemme know what u think!!<br/>what'd y'all think her husband did? 👀</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Savior Complex</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Your house is filled with agents, ready to pick apart your old life - yet you still want to help them.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey allllllll !  idk what this chapter is but it's a start! And i really should not be here (bcs i have v important presentation tmrrw lmao but!)<br/>which is also why this chapter is cut a bit! but the next one has some kind of ~confrontation (if i may say so myself 😏)</p><p>no checks! we die like men! bcs im ina  hurry</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the big empty house – now swarming and filled with law enforcement agents, sleep takes on a different shape. Like a weighted blanket and with a resounding headache – aftereffect of the long plane ride – you drift off completely to a dreamless world. When you wake up it takes you a while to remember where you are. First, you see the rays of sunlight dancing over the ceiling, then a few golden and green leaves blowing in, long draping curtains moving with the breeze of your open window.</p><p>The air smells like dust and dry, like the last evening. You sit up dreading already the view in front of you – the large portrait painting of you and Nathan at your wedding – a glimpse of your past life. Just looking at his face makes you nauseated. Yet, that’s not what makes you stand up at once, shaking off your sleep. It’s the smell of coffee that has overtaken the entire house, even 3 floors up from the kitchen. You hurry to the door then halt, remembering the night before. The agents would be suspicious of seeing you unchanged, unrested, in your <em>own</em> house. You turn to your walk-in closet, throwing the doors open and stripping off clothes on the go.</p><p>You land on the first and easiest outfit you can put on – a loose long dress that is held together by 2 ribbons tied around your shoulders. You kick off your socks next, hurrying into a pair of slippers and running your hand through your hair. These are <em>profilers</em> – you remind yourself. Appearance is <em>key. </em>So, you try your best to look as disheveled but comfortable as possible. When you’re out the door, you make a note to rearrange the master bedroom, no matter the duration of their little stay. </p><p>In the kitchen you hear voices, recognizing them immediately – Agent Rossi and Hotchner. You slow your steps, quieting down any movement as you walk over the wooden floor. You expect to overhear them talking about you, about the house, or even your father. But none of it is their topic of discussion. </p><p>“…and apparently he’s doing well in the new kindergarten. Jack has made a few friends.” Agent Hotchner says, voice soft and <em>different </em>– foreign to your ears as his words carry a certain lightness with them. You pause – feeling like witnessing an alien appearance, afraid to break the once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. </p><p>“Of course he would” Agent Rossi says, voice filled with amusement and fondness. “Jack is always trying to make friends everywhere he goes. Remember that time you told me when he went to the playground and introduced himself to every kid?” </p><p>There’s laughter from the other man – his baritone voice a pitch higher. </p><p>“Yes,” Agent Hotchner says, as laughter still accompanies his words, “even to the older kids. He went and asked them their names” </p><p>“That <em>kid</em>-“ Agent Rossi replies, “is a real treasure” </p><p>“He is,” Agent Hotchner says, tone of voice changing with a flip of a switch, “I hope <em> it  </em>doesn’t affect him too much.” </p><p>The silence that ensues, as does the severity of his tone leads you to assume the reason for the conversation being cut off –<em>his divorce</em>. You’d just never thought it had been <em>so </em>recent. </p><p>“Aaron,… Haley is letting you see him. As long as Jack knows you love him and you spend time with him – he’s going to be fine. He’s a great kid.” </p><p>“I know, it’s just -…” </p><p>There’s a quiet and you don’t want to interrupt their privacy – not yet. </p><p>“You’ll get through this, Aaron. I know it is difficult but you’ll manage” </p><p>You count to yourself seconds, enough so that it doesn’t feel rehearsed and unnatural, preparing yourself to walk in. </p><p>“Take it from the guy with<em> three</em> divorces – you will be fine. The kid will be fine.” </p><p>Taking that as an opportune moment as any, you make your footprints heard before entering the kitchen. They’re both in agent-mode, albeit without jackets on, both of them draped over their respective chairs. They’re drinking coffee together over the dining table. It’s the most usual sight ever – if it weren’t for the fact that they’re basically FBI agents. You feign aloofness.  </p><p>“Oh, good morning” </p><p>Agent Rossi raises his cup in greeting, small smile over his lips. </p><p>“Morning! I managed to find the coffee capsules. I hope you don’t mind” </p><p>“Only if you didn’t leave me some” you reply, heading to the coffee machine.  </p><p>He chuckles, “There’s enough but it tastes funky.” </p><p>“Probably because it’s old” You say looking over your shoulder as you place a mug underneath the machine, pressing the button. </p><p>“Sorry for not having any food in the house – I will order some groceries to be delivered today. At least coffee.” </p><p>“That’s a good plan” he says. The machine stops whirring and you pick the mug up, turning to slide open the large glass doors leading to the garden. Everything around the house smells rotten, and you’re adamant in letting fresh air in. </p><p>“did you manage to sleep well?” you ask them, looking out the garden. </p><p>“Yes” Only Agent Rossi answers. “The house is nice. But it’s a bit huge no?” </p><p>You lean against the counter, watching them turn towards you, while they drink from their mugs. You’d been prepared of it – the casual<em> interrogation</em> that would follow by having them here. </p><p>“Yes, uh, my husband had a lot of nieces and nephews, and a very extended family tree. He wanted us to have a big space for the kids to run around and not be yelled at by their parents.” </p><p>“Seems like a good house to raise kids” </p><p>You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. It’s why you wanted them all here – to dive into your life and see you had nothing to do with the serial murders. You give him the short answer. </p><p> “I didn’t want kids.” </p><p>Agent Hotchner leans back on his chair – glancing at the man in front of him. He knows that had the question been from him, you wouldn’t have answered this easily, and it bugs him in a way he can’t properly explain. They don’t speak so you continue.  </p><p>“My husband did and I thought at some point my mind would change – he compromised a lot to be with me. So, I wanted to do the same. But it wasn’t that easy, and he knew it too.” </p><p><em> The lie</em> you’d told him for instance, had caught up with you, sooner than you imagined. </p><p>“What do you mean?” </p><p>“I read some articles that said the serial killer gene is a real thing. I don’t want to bring a creature in the world, knowing my father can continue to wreck my life.” </p><p>Agent Rossi nods, then turns to look at his friend. </p><p>“I am certain Reid can give you the factual statistics on that statement. But I can assure you that genetic susceptibility is not the only factor – environmental triggers are extremely important as well.” </p><p>And you’d wondered – how your father had turned to be a killer, and what made him change, and more often than not – if you would ever<em> transform</em> like him. Agent Hotchner in front of him is silent, face stern as always as he watches you. Maybe it’s why he’s so biased towards you – because he knows something you don’t. Maybe you don’t really stand a chance, and it’s why you feel more comfortable in being in violence than in peace. </p><p>The phone rings, disrupting the quiet and Agent Hotchner picks it up. </p><p>“Yes, Garcia?” </p><p>His eyebrows go up and they both stand up at once. </p><p>“Okay. Thank you. We will be there in a few – please inform the police captain.” </p><p>“I’ll call the others –“ Agent Rossi says, patting him on the shoulder before leaving in fast wide steps.  </p><p>You gravitate towards Agent Hotchner – aware of what this urgency has come to mean over the short time you’ve spent around them. </p><p>“Is it my father?” He looks down meeting your eyes, while he throws his suit jacket over his shoulders – having seemingly forgotten about your presence in the room. His tall stature is imposing as ever, as he takes in your appearance and your sorrowful expression. </p><p>“No” he says, “there’s been <em>another </em>body.” </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch has been coordinating with the police department since the early morning. Prentiss and Morgan were at the last disposal site, Reid and Rossi at the victim’s house as the ID had been verified by Garcia and even the police captain. JJ had struggled to keep the media frenzy under control but it had been useless. He sees her step down the podium after finishing the last rounds of interviews. The last question – from a man no less – had been on if the murderer could be a business partner of all of these rich men. JJ lets him down gently, eloquently convincing him, and all the other journalists that the FBI had the suspects under control thus far.  </p><p>Hotch doesn’t believe they do – not after the M.E confirms the time of murder had been somewhere at midnight before they’d even landed. All his theories had gone out the window: that <em>you</em> had something to do with it, that  <em> you </em>’d delegated orders to a partner, or even another copycat killer.  </p><p>JJ lets out a frustrated sigh as she joins him and they both walk back inside the building.  </p><p>“We really need a strike of lightning” she says.  </p><p>He calls the only person who can make that possible – Penelope Garcia. </p><p>“Den of never-ending knowledge speaking – how may I humbly serve you my Lord?” </p><p>He fights the desire to roll his eyes, eyebrows furrowing instead. JJ pushes the doors of the conference room open as they walk through. He switches to loudspeaker when the doors are shut. </p><p>“Garcia do you have anything new?” </p><p>The woman on the other line sighs as well, “I’m afraid not. Alex Black was strictly off social media. No internet trace at all. Even his appearance in magazines is very brief – he inherited most of his fortune from his father who passed away few years ago. And he’s been practically a sitting duck. I can’t even figure out what he did in his free time.” </p><p>Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. </p><p>“No golf-clubs or attendance at horse racing tracks?” </p><p>“Negative” Garcia says, “Nothing to denote that he was even a regular. The only instance I have from his bank statements that he frequented a horse racing track is from a year ago. Before the inheritance became legally his.” </p><p>“These men probably don’t need to pay for anything” JJ chimes in, “he gets invited in these places, as his appearance may attract likeminded people” </p><p>Hotch nods, having thought of the same. </p><p>“It’s good we asked the public to help with further information, and well –“she glances at him, a tentative look on her eyes, “<em>that reward</em> could maybe work.” </p><p>“How so?” </p><p>“If he bets so do other people around him – like someone who’s potentially lost money betting on losing horses.” </p><p>He hadn’t even thought of that possibility. </p><p>“Uh… sir?” Garcia mumbles from the phone, “remember my <em>task</em>? I have something to report” </p><p>Hotch picks up the phone with the speed of light, switching off loudspeaker before JJ notices. It’s too late for that and he knows, but he’ll deal with it later. </p><p>“What is it, Garcia?” </p><p>“<em>She’s </em>been trying to call the police precinct for the last 15 minutes” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Yes, I’m seeing it literally now on my screen.” There’s furious typing on the other hand, the cracking of keys, then she speaks again, “Nobody is picking up from the flux of phone calls since JJ’s press conference-“ </p><p>“That’s okay, Garcia. Can you link her directly to my phone?” </p><p>“Uh… yes. In a few minutes after she hangs up I will redirect.” </p><p>“Okay, thanks” </p><p>He hangs up and JJ is looking at him quizzically.  </p><p>“You’re tracing her phone?” she asks. </p><p>“Yes” </p><p>He waits for her protests, even a few comments and criticisms, the same way Dave had done. </p><p>“Why didn’t you tell us? I would have stayed with her if you believe she’s involved-“ </p><p>He’s surprised by her reaction but waves it off. </p><p>“JJ, I need you here dealing with the press. And I don’t believe she’s responsible for these murders – just that she’s withholding information” </p><p>“Okay” JJ breathes out, “I understand” </p><p>His phone still on his hand rings, and he picks up at once, not letting it dial longer than 5 seconds. Your voice is urgent and frustrated – and a <em>lot</em> loud. He has to hold the phone away from his ear. </p><p>“Hello? I’ve literally been calling for the last fifteen minutes. You realize that? Fifteen minutes! How are you lying to the public telling them to call with information when you can’t even manage the influx? Are you that incapable and ignorant-“ </p><p>“Finch” he calls your surname, and it makes you stammer then halt – because it’s your father’s surname, not your new one. He hears you take in a deep breath. </p><p>“Who is this?” you ask. </p><p>“Hotchner” he answers. </p><p>You let out a breath and he hears it too – but he pushes that matter to the back, to be reopened at another time.  </p><p>“Well, I – I… uh, have information on Black – your last victim. I saw his face on the news” you say. </p><p>He switches the phone to loudspeaker, including JJ as well. But you don’t speak of the topic you opened yet. </p><p>“How come you didn’t give me your phone number? None of you gave me your contacts. You’re literally staying in my fuckin-“ </p><p>“You’re on loudspeaker” he says, cutting off your rambling. “Did you know him?” </p><p>Another steadying breath. </p><p>“I did” you answer, voice slightly calmer, “he visited my husband's place of work very often – that’s how we met. And, I do not speak ill of the dead – but he was a real <em>piece of shit </em>” </p><p>He shares a look with JJ. They can’t do their jobs properly without studying your body language. </p><p>“Can you get a cab here?” </p><p>“Pardon?” </p><p>“Get to the police department” he says and JJ nods, “Agent Jareau will wait for you in the back, so you don’t have to pass through the journalists outside. Can you do that?“ </p><p>“Yes” you retort, sarcasm heavy on your voice, “I can do that <em>basic </em>thing, <em>sir </em>”  </p><p>“Then get here.” He replies with a bite, “We will wait” </p><p>With that you hang up and they share a look. He calls immediately Reid – ordering him to get to the precinct as soon as he’s done. He needs his sharp eyes as you relay the information. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Your hands are still shaking after that phone call, not from his voice – an order <em>again </em>– but from the photo in your hands. Something had urged you to go inside Nathan’s home office. Maybe it had been nostalgia for the good times - in order to erase the bad memories, or the desire to understand why everything had turned out to be  <em> so  </em> insane so fast. You’d pushed the door open, the smell of the unaired room the same as everywhere in the house, but here is mixed with that of old papers and books. You’d let yourself hover below the doorframe, incapable of making a further step. Everything: his large shelves with books, the large golden globe sitting next to the windows, even his cocktail corner – all once familiar felt foreign now. Even the man standing on the large portrait of you both looked like a stranger.</p><p>Your feet moved on their own – making you stop in front of it. Their family had insisted on it, <em>this</em> obnoxious portrayal of what would be your new family. You’d remarked him that it made more sense to have one once you both had kids – reminding him that all of the houses of his relatives didn’t have one without their offspring. It had been your own fucked up way of seeing if he’d changed his mind already – regretting marrying you because of your inability to have kids. He’d told you he didn’t – that he had his new family in front of him: you. And that sufficed.  </p><p><em> That had been the first earthquake. </em> </p><p>His face had brought another wave of nausea over your throat, and it had been on instinct – grabbing a pen from the desk and sticking it to his eyes, dragging it over his face, until there’s just a gaping hole instead. </p><p>“<em>Fucking piece of s</em><em>h</em><em>i</em><em>t</em>-“  </p><p>It had been cathartic – making you feel lighter afterwards. </p><p>His desk had been like a magnet, pulling you in and making you sit on his usual seat. The surface of the desk had been bare – apart from a few documents and papers that the police had scrambled through once you’d declared him missing.  </p><p>A photo of you both on your first date sat above it, as do a few of his parents with him. You’d picked up one – taken at their vacation home near the beach. You’d been the only ones from the grownups to volunteer to camp out together with the rest of the kids of the family. You looked giddy and cheesy – scooped up in his arms as he stood in his swimming trunks smiling at the camera. His nieces and nephews – more than a dozen were in a mixture of funny, crazy poses in front of you both, the sea spanning behind you all. It had been your favorite day – the one day where you’d forgotten your origin. </p><p>Then, you’d switched on the TV – a news channel popping on as you’d started opening up drawers from his desk. A voice too familiar on the screen making you look up, as you took out photos from his second drawer. </p><p>“—so if anyone hears anything about Mr. Alex Black, the police will appreciate your collaboration-“ Agent Jareau said. </p><p>That name had rattled around in your brain, sounding eerily familiar. Then the channel had changed their screen to split view, as a photo of the man took half the screen. You’d jolted up – everything connecting at once – a large picture frame falling from your hands over the desk. You’d picked it up and your face had gone white – Nathan stood in a tuxedo, arms in arms with several men dressed the same. And Alex Black stood at his left. You’d noted as well, the first man Agent Hotchner had shown you in the interrogation room, on the further right.  </p><p>That’s when the shaking had started.  </p><p>You march to your bedroom, sticking the photo as far below your mattress as you can.</p><p>
  <em>What are the chances they will believe you had never seen all these men before today? </em>
</p><p><em>What are the probabilities they’ll trust you when you say you’d stumbled to it – by mistake? </em> </p><p>You will your hands to stop shaking but you can’t - as you’re flooded with memories of the man, Alex Black. You’d dialed the number on the screen as soon as his face had shown up – and it had been a good 15minutes before anyone had picked up.  </p><p>You take a deep breath – in and out, calming yourself down, remembering Agent Hotchner’s last sentence to you. He wants you there – and<em> for the first time</em> he’s letting you help them. You shake your head, putting on your shoes and taking your handbag and phone. It doesn’t matter what you saw, so long as you can prove your innocence. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch watches JJ direct you to an office, Dave and Reid at his side. It had taken Dave’s hand on his shoulder to make him physically stop before joining JJ inside.  </p><p>“What do you say if I go instead? We need her to be calm.” his friend says, and he has to nod in response accepting it too. Maybe it’s because by unknowingly forcing Dave to be responsible for you, it had managed to make you open up easier. Or maybe it’s because he wouldn’t be able to do his job properly, without having a million other thoughts bouncing around in his brain. Or maybe he’s simply frustrated – being so antagonizing towards you had forced a wedge in between and he couldn’t do more than provoke you. No wonder you wouldn’t open up but only ever swear at him – Hotch is still the only one who’s as stoic as the first time. It felt like he’d been stuck at “bad cop” – as Prentiss called it – since he’d first met you. And he couldn’t get out, <em>damned his strong resolve. </em> </p><p>“very well” Hotch says, “JJ and you can take this. Reid and I will be outside monitoring the situation as well.” </p><p>The agent beside him – Dr. Reid, nods. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Agent Jareau hands you a cup of tea. Maybe that’s her job – you think, anticipating what others will need, offering comfort and a certain bubble of security so people can open up easily.  </p><p>“Thanks, Agent Jareau” </p><p>“Please” she says with a soft smile, “Call me JJ” </p><p>You nod, slightly taken aback. Agent Rossi sits down by her left, and he pushes a few documents your way. You hold up a hand before he opens the file – </p><p>You’d heard the news – Alex Black was found at the side of the highway, same bullet wound and stabbed like the others. You want them to spare you that visual – the last man was still ingrained in your memory. </p><p>“I’m good, thanks” </p><p>He retracts the files. </p><p>“So, start from the beginning. How you met him, what was the first impression, what you know about his job, his family life-“ </p><p>You interrupt, “<em>My  </em>first impression?” </p><p>He nods, “Sometimes that’s the one that tells us everything about the person” </p><p>“Or it’s a stereotype” you rebut. </p><p>He nods again, “That’s also true, but stereotypes usually build up from something true – yet” he says noting the way your face scrunches up, ready to argue already, “they grow disproportionately and are largely harmful” </p><p>“So,” Agent Ja – JJ says, “why was he a bad man?” </p><p>You scoff, <em>so she’d been in the room</em>.  </p><p>“I said something else but, sure. He was a bad man.” You glance back at Rossi, “That was also my first impression of him” </p><p>He motions for you to expand. </p><p>“I met him a few months after I met my husband – we weren’t dating yet. We were… uh,” how do you explain this to people in their stature? You settle on the easiest word: “<em>friends</em>-“  </p><p>Agent Rossi nods, but JJ has a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. </p><p>“-with <em>benefits</em>” she fills in. </p><p>“Yes. We had odd meet ups - and his office was one of them – the large tech company located here in the center.” </p><p>They let you continue. </p><p>“And this guy – Alex Black – was once there. He introduced himself as one of my husband’s friends. He was courteous, and polite – a<em> real</em> gentleman” </p><p>They sense the sarcasm in your last sentence. </p><p>“But that wasn’t the first time we’d met. He used to be a frequent customer at the strip club Therese and I worked at, in New York. I used to work as a bartender and Therese and I had odd shifts, never on the same moment. If clients catch you being friendly with the girls they make unsolicited propositions” </p><p>“Propositions?” JJ asks. </p><p>“Yes, the variety of which include more than 2 people in a more private setting.” A <em>threesome, basically. </em> </p><p>“Ah” she lets out, understanding the implication of your words. </p><p>“He didn’t remember you?” Rossi asks. </p><p>“Not at all. Men tend to pay less attention to clothed people.” You say with a tight-lipped smile. “I know he’s a bad man, because he got kicked out of the strip club” </p><p>“What did he do?” JJ asks. </p><p>“Well, he was caught countless of times trying to roofie the girls in the private chambers.”  </p><p>You’d caught something strange happening too – when girls would go in the chambers with him and come out with an arm around his shoulders. Girls whose shift would end soon too -trying to pass it off as if he’d convinced them to date them. You curl your hands into fists over the table. </p><p>“His <em>fucking </em>goatee -“ you let out, remembering the one time he’d ordered a scotch, neat, and  had then smoothed his fingers over it, more than twice – like a fly before landing over  shit. “He used to order scotch, drink it on one ago and look at the girls like he was trying to see who looked more  <em> spent </em>, more tired. As if trying to see who was on their last shift – before he decided who to prey on.” </p><p>You meet JJ’s eyes. “<em>Hence</em>, why my wording of his character” </p><p>She nods.  </p><p>“How did he get kicked out?” Rossi asks.  </p><p>“Well, the regulations in a strip club are pretty loose. They touch a stripper without consent, at most they get roughed up - not thrown out as the club needs their clients – even the sleazy ones. However, you’re mean to a bartender, you’ll get thrown out.“ </p><p>“so, you got him kicked out and he <em>still</em> didn’t remember you?” </p><p>“I didn’t specifically order people to do it. It was more <em>planned and eloquent </em>than that.” </p><p>“How so?” Rossi’s got an amused smirk on his face – likely enjoying your storytelling. </p><p>“I told a bodyguard that I saw him in the bar, trying to roofie a girl. It happened rather quietly – he never saw my face once. He didn’t remember me because of that.” </p><p>They nod.  </p><p>“I see why he’s a piece of shit.” JJ says. </p><p>“When I met him again, he said ‘life was treating him well, since his father died’” </p><p>Rossi smiles, “Quite a personality” </p><p>“I mean, <em>don’t get me wrong</em>. I wouldn’t judge someone for sharing that same sentiment I do. But he did nothing – my husband told me he was slowly losing it. He was betting on horses, on racecars, on any kind of sport that was legal to do so.” </p><p>“Do you know what kind of places he frequented?” </p><p>“There was this club – a bit outside of Seattle, Emerald Downs – a horse racing court. I remember it clearly because it was all everyone talked about at the time. How the big winner would get granted an opportunity to join a more prestigious club. Something only more privileged and <em>loaded </em>people could get in.” </p><p>“Do you remember the name of the club?” </p><p>You rack your brain – it had something to do with a plant, or a leaf, something green and used everywhere – </p><p>“Oh, yes. Clover..., I think?” </p><p>JJ scribbles it down. “I will tell Garcia” Rossi nods. </p><p>“What about other places?” </p><p>“Well, uh, there was this exclusive gentlemen's club, down the street – Brook’s.” JJ writes it down too, “and uh, strip clubs would also be a good way to start.” </p><p>You run it through your mind.  </p><p>“I mean, that guy had also a lot of power and money, so I don’t rest easy thinking that maybe he passed onto other locations to pick up girls.” </p><p>“It’s a start-“ Rossi says, he pushes a paper your way, “Can you write down any place that crosses your mind?” </p><p>“Yes.”  </p><p>You do so, writing down every single location where rich white men, like Alex Black, go – adding also Therese’s number. </p><p>“There’s also Therese’s contact information there. She remembers everyone from that strip club, and definitely the name of the men who kicked out Black. I imagine you want to fact check what I’m saying” </p><p>Rossi tilts his head, giving you a curious look. </p><p>“Why do you think?” </p><p>You look pointedly towards the glass walls of the office, where not too far away standing still are Agent Hotchner and Reid. </p><p>“I suppose you want to corroborate my story” </p><p>Rossi stands up, chuckling.  </p><p>“I’ll give this to Garcia then” JJ says, taking the paper. </p><p>“I have a better idea.” He turns to JJ, “I’ll be back in a few.” </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch watches Dave step outside, a small smile lingering on his face as he approaches them. Dave is quick in recapping everything you’d said but then he halts, and Hotch knows that flicker on his eyes again. It’s what has lead them here, and staying at your house. He has a <em>crazy</em> idea, and he sees it on his face. Dave pats Reid’s shoulder affectionately. </p><p>“Get me a coffee, kid” </p><p>If the expression on his face wasn’t so familiar – <em>that’d </em>be the other cue. They watch him leave and when he’s out of earshot, Hotch gets impatient. </p><p>“What is it?” </p><p>“I think<em> she </em>should work with Garcia” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>Dave’s smile is maddening.  </p><p>“Garcia has to check all of these locations and then make sure they find this super-secret rich people’s club. And we are on a time crunch. Who better to make her work efficiently?” </p><p>“Dave…” Hotch starts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How did you even end up to that conclusion?” </p><p>“She’s helpful. And it’s a way to keep her in the loop with what is happening.” </p><p>“We did <em>not </em>want that” he reminds the other man. </p><p>“If you’re worried about Garcia, JJ can help too. Keep an eye on her” </p><p>Hotch scoffs, feeling the exhaustion on his shoulders – that quote was not for naught, it is <em>harder </em>working with friends. </p><p>“I’m going to have Garcia do a deep dive on you – find out if she’s secretly your daughter.” </p><p>Dave laughs at that. </p><p>“I’m not joking” Hotch says, “you’ve taken a liking to her. You’re also overprotective” </p><p>“Funny” his friend says, raising both his eyebrows, “I could say the same to you” </p><p>Hotch’s frown grows deeper, “I have <em> not  </em>taken a liking to her” </p><p>“I wouldn’t blame you.” Dave says, “she’s beautiful, young, quite a personality,” Hotch’s eyes go unconsciously to your figure - the short red hair tucked behind your ears, the sharp jawline as you look down at something JJ points at you on the paper. You’re donning a soft milk-colored dress this time and – </p><p> –<em>why were there so many dresses, </em>he thinks, <em>and all of them never with sleeves? </em>  </p><p>“-and <em>she’s not Haley </em>.” Dave finishes and Hotch snaps his attention to him – glaring. He feels the need to remind Dave: </p><p>“She’s a <em>criminal </em>”  </p><p>Dave shrugs, “She’s not a serial killer” </p><p>“Dave-“ at this point he feels like he’s scolding a child. “I don’t even want to think about what you’re suggesting-“ </p><p>“She’s taken a liking to you too” he says, and Hotch halts, surprise evident on his face. "She's very talented at pushing your buttons."</p><p>“She <em>hates </em>me” he retorts. “she can’t stand me” </p><p>Dave shakes his head, “<em>Aaron</em>, the BAU saved her life from a violent man. Who knows what would have happened if you and Gideon hadn’t saved her life from her father. You’re her <em>hero</em>.” </p><p><em> Funny way of showing it then,  </em>he thinks but doesn’t say so to Dave. He’d rejoice at that comment – take it to mean something completely different. </p><p>“She <em>thinks </em>she hates you.” He studies Hotch’s face, the way his eyebrows knit together at his words. “ You imprisoned her <em>father, </em>Aaron. <em>I’ </em> <em> d</em> hate you too.” </p><p>Hotch had admittedly, never let his mind head there – but he’s sure he wants the conversation to end. That’s another thing that applies to ‘<em>working with friends</em>’ – risking being faced with hard truths to come to terms with at every waking moment. </p><p>“Fine” he breathes out, feeling overwhelmed, “She can help Garcia.” </p><p>Dave slaps his shoulder and just in time – Reid joins them with two cups of coffee. He asks something that Hotch wonders too. </p><p>“Where do we go from here?”  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thnx for reading as well!!! lemme know what yall think thnxxx  love ya 💕💕✌</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Never Sweeter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You're helping the BAU at last - and trying to cope with the memories from a year ago that still plague your mind.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heyyy yall thnx so much for the love im 💕💕<br/>I was going for a long-ish chapter this time buttt everytime i try to write sth and leave it there, my mind is like "turn this into a fukin phd of 20302 words" lmao so i had to cut this again</p><p>title from song by Matilda Mann because her line:</p><p>"Cause you were never sweeter, than when you came across so bitter" and you'll see why 😉 (lets forget the actual meaning of the song lmao jjust focusin on these lines thnx)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You can remember distinctly the last time you’d been in this same building – <em>almost a year ago. </em>  </p><p>It had been close to Halloween when you’d shown up at the precinct, heart beating so loudly in your chest it felt like it might escape your ribcage. You'd made a promise to yourself after spending a lifetime in and out of police departments and precincts. It had been a well-kept promise too – after helping the agents two years ago by letting them know where your father could be, you’d never spent more than 20seconds around a law enforcement officer. And that was only because of traffic lights, and walking around the city in New York, when you’d wait before passing the zebra crossing.  </p><p>Every moment you saw someone in a uniform your stomach would knot violently. Every time someone even mentioned the police, you’d hear it from miles away, like you had a very sharp, yet needless, sixth sense. </p><p>Almost a year ago though, you had no other option but be around officers. It wasn’t like you had a lot of alternatives – it was either show up <em> willingly </em>  to declare your husband was missing, or not do so and wait for the police to make you their prime suspect. The first, even though painful, was better than the last.</p><p><em>Because what’s more suspicious than a wife never noticing her husband missing? </em> </p><p>Now it is different – that is what you repeat to yourself like a mantra or a chant. Funny how you’ve become full of mantras these days.  </p><p>First, it’s: <em>you have to help them – it's why you’re here. </em>Then -</p><p><em>You’re back in the house but that is okay – that's why they’re here. </em> </p><p>Now:<em> it’s different – you’re not here because of Nathan. </em> </p><p>The door of the office they’ve left you in opens and JJ walks in, a polite smile on her face. You hold in a breath - </p><p>“We’ve set a conference room where we can work in with our technical analyst” she says, lingering by the door, “would you mind if you helped us a bit longer today?” </p><p>You exhale, a small smile easy to appear over your lips - </p><p>“Of course.” </p><p>“I’ll lead you to it” </p><p>You stand up and follow her through the packed floor swarming with officers, as she heads further in.  She leads you inside a bigger room, a round table in the middle with several empty chairs, daylight entering the space through the open shades of the large windows.</p><p>A few laptops sit open over the surface of the table, as do several empty coffee cups and few documents spread around. Your attention is caught by the glass door on the other side of the room – catching a glimpse of Dr. Reid through it. He’s talking to someone – but the glass partition the two rooms share together is covered with blinds from the other side. </p><p>“You remember Garcia?” JJ asks, garnering your focus again. She points at the screen of one of the laptops and you walk to it – recalling the face of the blonde woman from the plane. </p><p>“Yeah-” you say, and when you’re closer you see her – bright-colors and beaming, staring at you through the screen. Suddenly shy, you blurt out: “oh, hi!” </p><p>The other woman does the same, stammering while saying it back. It’s so weird having to work with someone when Agent Hotchner had once made it clear you were not to speak to one another. But <em>he knew right? </em>There’s no way he can’t know. </p><p>“Please, sit” JJ says and you do so immediately, refocusing yourself – you don’t recall when you’d glanced again at the glass partition. </p><p>“She’s the greatest technical analyst someone could ever hope for-” JJ starts, sitting down beside you, wheeling her chair closer to yours. Her cheery tone of voice helps dissipate the awkwardness in the air. </p><p>“-Penelope Garcia” </p><p>The woman raises a hand – a fluffy pink pencil waving with her fingers. </p><p>“Hi, uh, it’s a pleasure to meet you again – officially.” You say, smiling again. “I don’t know what I can help you with when I don’t know much about computers-” </p><p>“Oh, that’s okay” JJ says, “Garcia will start by checking the locations we sent her, checking Black’s bank statements. If we can retrace his usual day to day, it would be perfect.” </p><p>That seems simple enough. </p><p>“Okay”, you say nodding, looking back at Penelope, “so what can I do?” </p><p>Penelope doesn’t look at you though, her eyes are on another screen – visible through the reflection of the cheetah-print eyeglasses perched over the bridge of her nose – and she types fast over her keyboard. </p><p>“You’re here to confirm my searches.” </p><p>“Confirm?” </p><p>“Yes,” she says, taking over and JJ leans back on her chair, “I’m finding it difficult to catch a trail of this man’s expenses in clubs or elsewhere. He’s been very keen on using cash instead of credit or any other sort of bank payment when going out.” </p><p>You cock your head to the side –<em>figures. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>Did you check ATMs?” </p><p>She huffs, “Obviously. I’m not a beginner”, she says but not unkindly. She has the same air of confidence at her job as do the others – so you take it for granted that she’s as excellent as Agent Rossi and JJ had said. </p><p>“Thought rich people didn’t carry cash around” JJ mutters at your left, “but that’s how this guy seems to be making all of his transactions.” </p><p>Her words strike a synapse in your brain as a distant, seemingly unimportant memory plays through your mind. It throws you back to the past - </p><p>Nathan’s laugh is loud and rasping at your right, his hand clasped firmly over your knee. You swivel your head to his direction – Alex Black sits before you both, turned halfway to talk to him. He looks proud and pleased at Nathan’s reaction, at whatever he must have told him to have made him laugh earnestly. On the other hand, as you continue to fan furiously yourself with the small paper tickets, you are bored at the sight below the racetracks. There’s a horse race being prepared to start in some minutes – and people are taking their seats or chatting each other up. Especially, in the VIP podium of the arena. You’re pissed off you’d let yourself be talked into attending – you remember faintly the talk with Nathan the night before as he’d begged him to come with and he’d made a compelling argument over… over... </p><p>Wait, what was it he’d said?  </p><p><em> T</em><em>hat he’d be happy to show you around all those rich people </em>– funny in retrospect.  </p><p>Yet, it’s not why you remember this specific moment in time, but it’s the sliver of conversation you catch from them, as Alex Black stands up - </p><p>“I’m heading to Brook’s tonight to make another <em>withdrawal”, then </em>he’d leaned over Nathan, wanting to whisper something private, yet still overheard to your ears, “<em>Papa needs some cash for tonight’s celebration” </em> </p><p><em> “Brook’s”  </em>you hear yourself say aloud.  </p><p>“What?” they both ask.  </p><p>“The gentlemen’s club – Brook's. Did he make payments over there?” </p><p>You hear more typing from Penelope’s end and then - </p><p>“Yes. But they’re all lunch, brunch, dinners or breakfast expenses– nothing too unusual” </p><p>“How much is he pouring in?” </p><p>“Well,” she says, “around 100-200 per meal” </p><p>You and JJ share a look. </p><p>“I’m not an expert but that’s a little bit much.” </p><p>You nod, “No, that’s definitely not a meal plan. Unless he’s getting caviar every single time like a lunatic” </p><p>Penelope snorts, “I don’t know, maybe he does” </p><p>There’s more typing and Penelope inhales deeply, “oh - damn, I think you’re right. He’s got an active account in the club.” </p><p>“Can you get in it, Garcia?” JJ asks, at the same time as you ask, “Gentlemen’s clubs have accounts?” </p><p>“I’m trying but they’ve got a pretty tight security” </p><p>Then you register what they both said - </p><p>“Wait,” you stare at JJ, “are you guys, uh...<em>hacking</em>?” </p><p>JJ chuckles, “I did tell you she’s the best at her job – we just never specify what it is she does <em>precisely</em>.” </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch feels himself going crazy, hour by hour, as the time passes. Prentiss and Morgan return from the disposal site, confirming that it had been the same as the other ones – muddy, a rushed job, a literal dumping of the body. It was Reid who’d first deduced that the bodies were rolled from the car.</p><p>They’d confirmed it with the M.E after seeing the lines of tears on the skin of the victims, not from the stab or bullet wounds, but from the ground digging into them as they rolled down. Yet, they still do not have yet an idea where the serial killer is finding these victims. He looks at the blinds on the glass partition – that's the part of the job he’d entrusted to Garcia, JJ and you.  </p><p>“- Hotch”  </p><p>He whips his head around to where Morgan sits. The other man’s been calling his name for a while now. </p><p>“You okay?” he asks, puzzled look on his face. </p><p>“Yes,” Hotch answers sharply, ending swiftly the line of questioning before it even starts. </p><p>“I was going to order us some lunch from that diner down the street that the police captain recommended. Do you want something?” </p><p>“No, that’s okay, just get me whatever you’re getting.” </p><p>His eyes wander again towards the glass partition – towards the other room where you’d been at with JJ, not surfacing since early morning.  </p><p>“Get the girls food too” Dave shoots from behind Hotch, making him turn.</p><p>Dave walks to the glass wall, opening the blinds with a quick movement. He knocks lightly on the glass getting the attention of the people behind it. Hotch notes JJ sitting in front of the laptop, Garcia taking over the entire screen, but you’re leaning over the table, talking animatedly about something to them both. You and JJ jolt – swiveling to the sound. Dave raises a hand, motioning eating with a spoon, and JJ gives a thumbs-up – she says something to you and you nod a feverishly. JJ stands up, and pushes open the door between the two rooms. </p><p>“Hey guys, where from and what are you ordering?” </p><p>“The diner owned by the Captain’s wife.” Morgan answers, “and burgers or sandwiches.” She nods, and relays the same to you behind her. Hotch sees you standing now, rocking back and forth on your heels, looking up at the ceiling, as if considering your options first. </p><p>“Bacon, egg and cheese sandwich?” Morgan calls to JJ, repeating her usual order – they'd gotten pretty much used to knowing by memory everyone’s dietary preferences, after spending so much time on the road and together in conference rooms.  </p><p>“Yes, please,” She turns her head to you again, calling out at you, “what do you want?” </p><p>You say something inaudible to rest of them, until JJ responds again, “make that two. You need help carrying stuff back?” </p><p>“That’s okay”, Hotch stands, surprising them both, “I’ll go order and bring the food back.” </p><p>“You sure?” Morgan asks with a frown, “We can always ask some newbie around to do everything too?” </p><p>“I can help too” Reid calls from his revolving chair. </p><p>But Hotch’s already got his suit jacket back on, not answering either of them, feeling their gazes boring into the back of his head. </p><p>“I need fresh air and I need to call Jack too” </p><p>That efficiently shuts them all up.  </p><p>He <em>does </em>call Jack, while he’s waiting for the food, and he  <em> did  </em> need fresh air, but he’s grown more distracted. Haley’s voice rings around in his head after the call – she'd been incredibly vague once Hotch had asked her if he could speak to their son. She’d mumbled a hazy statement of them  <em> just getting back </em>  from a playdate Jack had that morning. When he’d asked which one of Jack’s friends was it (all of their names already memorized because Jack talked so much to Hotch about them) she’d simply said he didn’t know him.</p><p>And he’s been replaying the sound of their landline ringing in their house for the last 15 minutes, followed shortly by Haley’s phone left unanswered as she’d been complaining about his job again. That unanswered phone call had been the reason to the most drawn-out fight they’d had – and <em>the last</em>. </p><p>“Order ready!”</p><p>The woman from behind the counter yells out, snapping him out of his trance. Hotch picks up the bags of food, leaving a generous tip in the tip jar as he carries them out. When he’s back to the offices he leaves their food unopened over the table in front of Reid, not waiting around to see them tear through the bags to get to their orders, but walks inside the other conference room – door still hanging open. </p><p>“- yes and it’s probably why he doesn’t use ATMs or the like-” you’re speaking fast, pacing around the room, motioning with hands and arms, as Garcia on the screen nods. JJ is not inside, probably disappeared to get another cup of coffee – if the many empty cups on the table are any indication. </p><p>“- maybe Brook’s is some kind of front – what do you say Penelope?”  </p><p>“No, you’re definitely onto something” Garcia responds, matching your intensity. </p><p>He stops in front of the table, a flicker of amusement crossing his features at the fact you’re already on first-name basis with one another. Hotch had warned Garcia to be weary, and less... well, <em>herself</em>. Of course, he didn’t expect her to do so – it was a ridiculous order to begin with. </p><p>“Did you find out something relevant, Garcia?” he asks, but you’re already turned around to face him, following the smell of the food wafting through the space.  </p><p>Only Garcia straightens up from his presence.  </p><p>“Yes, sir. <em>We </em>found out, potentially, why Alex Black never uses credit cards anywhere – the gentleman’s club, Brook’s, has accounts for some of its customers and we think that’s how he’s paying for everything.” </p><p>“Like a bank” you fill in, “he invests in the club and he can in turn withdraw money any time he wants” </p><p>Hotch nods, “Were you able to get into the account yet, Garcia?” </p><p>She flinches, shaking her head, “I’ve come up with diddly squat. Since it is like a bank, they have tight security and I’ve been trying to get in-” </p><p>Hotch interrupts her, “This isn’t the first time you’ve easily side swept bank security.” </p><p>You throw him a strange look but he doesn’t react. </p><p>“And you’ve done so successfully” You look at him quizzically and he turns, “What?” </p><p>“Oh, nothing-” you shake your head.  </p><p>“You’re right, sir. Nothing gets past Penelope Garcia. I’ll leave you nice people. Tootles!” </p><p>With that, she disappears off the screen, and the noise he’d heard faint before is louder – your stomach is rumbling. He holds out the other bag of food to you - bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches – and you give him another strange look, like you’d done before.</p><p>Like you’re not entirely comprehending his actions. He watches you raise a hand tentatively, like you’re approaching a wild animal, and then, moving as slowly as humanly possible, you take it off his hands. </p><p>“Thanks” you mumble. A moment passes where the urge to say the word back to you floods him too and he fights it with all his will. Instead, he nods.  </p><p>“Let me know when you find something else” </p><p>“Of course,” you shoot back. The last thing he hears before leaving is your voice calling Garcia back again, his lips tugging upwards against his will: </p><p>“Hey Penelope, please take a break to eat as well.” </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>The fact he’d brought you food is <em>by far</em> not the strangest thing he’s done this day.  </p><p>When Garcia finally hacks through the account late in the afternoon, and finds subdivisions of Black’s expenses, JJ calls everyone in to relay them the information – you decide to take a small cigarette break. You hadn’t specifically been given directions on what to do when they were sprouting theories, but you decide on your own to give them privacy. It’s also because you can’t bear the talk over dead bodies, and people’s past lives.  </p><p>It’s why you stand outside longer, at the back of the building where JJ had waited for you this morning, sitting over the steps of the stairs. But standing still makes you think of your husband – so you start pacing again like you’d done in the office.  </p><p>You’re out of the back alleyway, and into the main road, where you stop to look at the officers and the parked cars in front. It doesn’t feel like last year but a decade ago – when you’d been stormed by press and paparazzi while stepping out of the building. All of them raucous and aggressive – trying to catch a photo of your distraught face, and pulling violently at your clothes and hands, anything they could get their hands on like vultures.</p><p>It wasn’t the shouts or the insults they called aloud with the intent of getting a rise out of you that still lingers. All their attempts had been to make a flash of anger or offense rise up in your face so they could take a snap of you looking almost <em>neutral</em> over your husband’s disappearance. Or even the many tabloids. What lingers, and what makes it feel like a decade ago is the feeling of their hands on you. They didn’t care if they were hurting you, or if their nails scraped your skin, or grabbed your hair – before being pushed away a bit too late by police officers escorting you out. They just wanted a story.  </p><p>You let out an exhale, watching the puffs of smoke take form in the air before you. You stare at the cigarette in your hand. You already inherit one thing from your father – <em>bad habits.</em> Well, maybe more than one. You drop the butt of the cigarette on the ground, crushing it with the heel of your shoe and turn to the alleyway. The hairs at the back of your neck stand up, but you’re quickly inside the building and into the hall. </p><p>“Hey, <em>black widow </em>! Fancy seeing you here.”  </p><p>You freeze, your entire body shutting down at the name. You don’t dare look back. You don’t dare take a breath. </p><p>“Hey, why don’t you give me a smile,<em> pretty thing?  </em>I’ve missed your beautiful face” </p><p>That makes you whip around fast, anger replacing the feeling of fear. The man standing before you is paparazzi alright – a sleazy middle-aged man, large round glasses and a rat tail over his upper lip as an excuse for a moustache. You’d had to be polite and well-mannered back then, but not now.  </p><p>“What did you call me you motherfuck-” </p><p>The flash goes off, making you halt in shock. The man snickers, looking back at the product in his camera. </p><p>“That’s a good one,<em> sweetie. </em>Now give me one where you’re crying. Your body looks great in that dress. I would sell billions of copies if I could get you into a <em>certain</em> pose <em> -” </em> </p><p>You reach for the camera in his hand as another flash goes off and the man backs away, laugh resounding through your ears – burying itself deep in the part of your brain where nightmares originate from. </p><p>“I will<em>fucking</em> punch you, you piece of shit-”</p><p>A flurry of angry curse words escape your mouth. </p><p>“Are you being investigated for these murders too? Was killing your husband not enough? Are you that<em> insatiable</em><em>?” </em> </p><p>You grip the sleeve of his shirt but he gets out of your grasp. Your eyes are glued at the camera in his hands – it's why you don’t notice <em>him</em> behind the man. Not until the man lets out a grunt, back hitting his front. </p><p>“You’re within police grounds” Agent Hotchner says through his teeth. The man turns around, and the agent’s tactic of intimidating people through his height works with him, “I suggest you<em> scramble  </em>before you’re thrown out” </p><p>“Is that a threat? You can’t threaten me! I’m a civilian” The man retorts, pumping out his chest in an attempt to make himself bigger.</p><p>Rossi is by the back door. Agent Hotchner towers over the man, scowling as he spits the words at his face. </p><p>"<em>You’d know</em> when I’m threatening you.” </p><p>The man backs away, hurrying back to where he’s come from. He keeps glancing back at you and the agents, and it’s why he stumbles, crushing to the ground before the door. The camera shatters at his side, breaking into a million pieces as he lets out a loud scream. </p><p>“My camera!” </p><p>“Oops.” Agent Rossi lets out at his left – he’s leaning on the wall. He crosses his legs and arms, “Sorry. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” </p><p>The man is on hands and knees, picking up the pieces of the camera uselessly. He points at all of you, tears in his eyes. “You tripped me! You all will pay for this!” </p><p>“Sure we’ll do, buddy.” Rossi says, “In the meantime, get another job while you’re holding your breath” </p><p>You all watch the man leave, almost crying with what is left of his camera. Agent Hotchner stands still before you, looking at you with an unreadable expression.  </p><p>“You okay?” </p><p><em>That</em> is the weirdest thing he’s done today. </p><p>You look at him stupidly, mouth agape for a few seconds, taking longer than necessary to digest the simple question. </p><p>“Yes” you say. Then you remember, like a child who’s just recently learned how to communicate back and forth, what people say in these occasions. “Thanks” </p><p>He gives you a courteous nod, and heads back – leaving you dumbfounded.  </p><p>---- </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always lemme know what u think!!<br/>and thnxx so much for sticking thru with me and this story i appreciate it so much!! 💕💕</p><p>(im trying to be a bit more critical to my writing as well bcs i find myself repeating some words wayyy too often but i promise im tryin to write better in englissh but any comments u have pls send them my way i would appreciate it v much!)</p><p>BUT! i promise you... some ✨tenderness✨ next chapter 😏</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Pink in the Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You surprise the team with a wild idea - successfully so.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>YES! THEY YEARN! 💖</p><p>also this is that long-ish chapter i had to cut - and im giving u this bcs i have to disappear as i have another fukin presentation </p><p>Title from the song by our lord and savior, the queen herself - Mitski</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You all call it a night not too late this time – almost 8.30 - 9ish, because Penelope manages to link all the victims to a few locations that they frequented. But you will go back to work with them tomorrow, searching for<em> Clover</em>. You drive back with Rossi and JJ and it’s not until you’re inside the house that you realize how relieved you’d been away from it.</p><p>The rotten aroma of the house engulfs you at once but seeing them trickle into the living room one by one helps dissipate that feeling. You hadn’t particularly told anyone your idea yet – but you’d caught Dr. Reid alone before leaving the offices and asked him quickly and in a hushed voice: </p><p>“Does anyone have any dietary restrictions?”  </p><p>He’d looked at you strange, nose scrunching up and eyebrows furrowing. But he doesn’t take your vague question to mean anything particular so he answers in honesty that <em>no, nobody has</em>.  </p><p>So, you decide to finally use the groceries you’d had delivered to your house. You watch them talk amongst each other for a moment, all spread out in the couches and sofas. Even Agent Hotchner who’d been taciturn the rest of the day, seems lighter after finding the connection between the victims.</p><p>It’s written in their easy smiles and the way they joke around now – how important their job is to them. You walk to Rossi, and stand still, spine ramrod straight, waiting for them to quieten down before voicing your idea. </p><p>“So, uh” you start, looking at Rossi, “I know we skipped dinner - I was there, of course – so I was going to suggest to cook something for you guys.” You don’t let your eyes wander to what their reactions are, because it does feel cheesy to say this, especially smack in the middle of the living room like you’re standing now. </p><p>“I was going to ask for your help, Agent Rossi, so you know that I’m <em>not</em>” you shoot a look at Agent Hotchner, sitting quiet between agents Prentiss and Morgan, “- poisoning you.” JJ stifles a laugh at that. </p><p>Agent Rossi slaps his hands over his thighs before standing up, </p><p>“It would be my <em>honor</em> to be your sous chef, and see those cooking skills you’ve acquired <em> ” </em> </p><p><em> That’s all the answer you need. </em> </p><p><em> --- </em> </p><p> </p><p>Hotch watches you disappear into the kitchen with Dave – a weird feeling rising in his gut. </p><p>Prentiss and Morgan share a look once you’re both out, door shut behind you. </p><p>“Rossi <em>is smitten</em>” Prentiss says with a smile, causing the others to laugh. Hotch stares at them in wonder – not quite catching the little inside joke they all seem to be on. </p><p>“I mean -” Morgan continues with a grin, standing up, walking towards the chimney, admiring the plush furniture and the luxury of the interior design of the room, “she<em> is a rich young widower. </em>It wouldn’t be too far-fetched if he was actually smitten. They have gotten pretty close in the span of the time we’ve been here” He circles back to the coffee table, picking up a small golden ornament resembling a bitten apple. </p><p>“And she<em> does</em> have her own money” He says holding the thing up so Prentiss and Reid can see. </p><p>“So, we’re talking wife<em> number four</em>?” Prentiss asks her audience, matching his grin.</p><p>JJ and Reid join in their loud laughter – while Hotch feels that weird feeling continue to grow exponentially.  </p><p>“Statistically speaking” Reid starts, with a raised finger, ready to school them, “it is more common for people to marry within their socio-economic status. And unmarried adults who have been previously married – only 23% of them are likely to marry again.” </p><p>"There's quite an age difference" JJ reminds them all.</p><p>But Reid speaks again - this time none of them interrupts him like they usually do. </p><p>“They’re both financially stable – and that is in 67% of cases the main reason for divorce.” </p><p>“So,” Morgan says, waving a hand around as if wanting to swat his words away, “you’re saying she could also be the one<em> to stick</em>.” </p><p>They all laugh again, and Hotch finds that same feeling itching at his throat now – wanting to call at them to refocus but he has no real excuse to make them stop joking around – not one he can explain either way. JJ meets his eyes. Her curious gaze lingers over the tight hold he has on the glass of whiskey, something you’d offered when you’d all came back home.</p><p>She notes the knuckle-white grip he has over it, and the strain over his face, and Hotch forces himself to laugh at their shenanigans. <em>Forces</em> himself.  </p><p>“Who knows,” Prentiss says with a shrug, wiping away the tears that came with the laughter, “maybe they’re hashing out wedding plans right now in the kitchen.” </p><p>Drinking helps, he finds – at playing off easy smiles with them. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>Your chest expands again at hearing the laughter from the other room – bringing relief to your body and mind. Having people around the house makes the place feel less like a prison. </p><p>“Wow” Agent Rossi exhales, impressed at the ingredients over the kitchen island, “Farro spaghetti <em>and </em>salmon?” </p><p>You let out a laugh as you hold out an apron to him to take, “Yeah, I was waiting for your instructions actually –do you think salmon or spaghetti is better?” </p><p>He puts the apron on, heading to the sink to wash his hands and coming back with a serious face on. Nice to know he’s taking this as seriously as you are. </p><p>“The salmon is from the area and maybe it’s better you finally get to eat something from Seattle as well – no more diner burgers and sandwiches.” </p><p>He nods with the strict look of a restaurant chef. </p><p>“I agree” he says “so what are we making?” </p><p>“Whole grilled salmon with chanterelles” you reply, and you point to the ingredients that make the dish one by one as you recount the recipe from memory, “unsalted butter, vegetable oil, chanterelle mushrooms, thyme, garlic cloves - <em>obviously </em>” he smiles, “kosher salad and pepper and then” you point at the whole salmon over the table - “sockeye salmon to be prepared with salad and pepper, 1 thinly sliced lemon, sprigs dill, thyme, tarragon and olive oil” </p><p>“Those cooking classes must have been expensive” he says with a grin. </p><p>“They were” you admit, “but I make a mean grilled salmon” </p><p>“Oh, I don’t doubt you one second.” </p><p>He takes over cooking the chanterelle mushrooms then, both of you settling into an unspoken agreement. After instructing him where to find the appropriate appliances, he moves to the stove – heating a large cast iron skillet over medium-high. You watch him add butter and oil and swirl the pan until butter is melted. You go into preparing the grill to medium-low heat. Using a sharp knife, you make a slit along the belly of the salmon, running from rib cage to tail. </p><p>“So,” Rossi starts, as he adds mushrooms, thyme and garlic and seasoning on the skillet. “did you frequent horse racetracks often?” </p><p>He studies you – watching you turn the salmon on its back and cutting along both sides of the backbone without piercing through the skin on other side. You carefully remove the backbone without tearing the skin, then with small tweezers you remove the pin bones. </p><p>“Not often” You answer, with laser-sharp focus on the fish before you, “My husband would beg me to go with him – but I wasn’t a fan.” You season the inside of the fish with salt, pepper and stuff lemon slices, dill, thyme and tarragon inside the cavity. “I didn’t like being around horses – or <em>rich men</em>.” </p><p>“Oh, so you didn’t like the smell of the arenas?” Rossi asks with a grin, “How can someone not like that?” </p><p>You snort, “Right. I have nothing against the sport – I mean it’s probably better to whatever these wealthy men could be doing instead -”  </p><p>You feel his eyes on you at the statement, so you clarify. </p><p>“You know,” you say, “Alex Black was a <em>scumbag </em>and I’d rather he’d been frequenting the stables a bit too often than preying on girls.”  </p><p>He nods, not entirely convinced of your remark. You tie wet kitchen twine around the fish in several places to secure it and then place it on a rimmed baking sheet – all the while rubbing the skin all over with olive oil.  </p><p>“You weren’t a fan of the guy” he states while cooking the mushrooms, tossing the skillet often so they don’t burn. </p><p>Moving in front of the small indoor grill in the kitchen, you place carefully the uncovered fish on the grill grates – a small sizzling noise coming out of the contact.  </p><p>“I wasn’t a fan of any of them” you say without thinking. “Privileged, rich, never raising a hand for work or knowing what that’s like – men like that live in a different universe.” </p><p>You wipe your hands over the apron, and look out to the garden – suddenly too aware of the fact that the last fight with your husband had been inside this very room,<em> in the kitchen</em>. Heat rises to your neck and face and you move to the air conditioning turning it on. Rossi lets out a hum of approval once he feels the fresh air over the heat of the stove. </p><p>“You didn’t think your husband was the same?” He asks, back still to you. “He’s from the same background after all. And you said he was friends with Black” </p><p>You take in a sharp breath – grateful for all the noises around you and the distance that he cannot hear and see how unsteady you are. </p><p>“He was different” you say. And he’d been – for the shortest time span.</p><p>You’d truthfully thought so at one point. It's why you’d been swayed to date him for real, moving on from hooking up. It’s why you’d married him after all. If you focus your mind on the first months, you’d met him, even the blissful months as freshly-weds – you can<em> almost </em>remember why you loved him. But it takes everything out of you – emotionally and mentally – to recall everything. Even more to actually state it aloud to Agent Rossi. </p><p>“He was considerate and kind. He used to over tip at every single place he went to” you say, keeping your eyes shut – you <em>have to</em>, to make your words sound genuine. </p><p>“He had good humor and he was charming and charismatic and beautiful” you say. “He cared about the people around him – and he would listen to every stupid thing someone would say to him, no matter how big or small. His undivided attention made people feel important, like their opinion mattered. Like they were the only one in the world when he used to look them… at you -” you choke up, feeling tremors in your body – the illusion rapidly slipping away from your fingers, “when he looked at<em> me-”  </em> </p><p>But you cannot continue, tears now falling from your eyes – not because of the sadness, or from missing him – but from the intensity of the anger you feel. You don’t want to talk about him – because<em> all of it </em>is lies. He’s not considerate, kind or charming – he was <em>manipulative</em>. He was agile and cunning at making people believe he was innocent. The feeling of the knife from that night has never left -<em> you would do it again.</em></p><p>“I’m sorry-” Rossi says, voice soft. He’s beside you, handing you a napkin for your tears “I didn’t mean to make you sad.” </p><p>You take the cloth, wiping away the tears, glad that you’re able to hide your face and steel your micro expressions before he can study them. </p><p>“On a good note – the mushrooms are done.” He points to the kitchen island. The mushrooms in the skillet look golden brown and tender. “If you let me,” he says in that same voice, “I’ll keep an eye on the salmon to turn it. He takes the tongs from your hands. “I’m thinking a Pinot Gris pairs well with grilled salmon. What do you say?” </p><p>You cock an eyebrow and he smirks. </p><p>“You may be more well-versed than me in <em>some </em>aspects of cooking. But I have been called a sommelier at times.” </p><p>“Ah” you let out with a laugh, “of course.” </p><p>You take your cue and head to the cellar – grabbing the wine he’d said. It takes about 10 more minutes before the fish is cooked. Another 10 to let it rest, and you both reheat the chanterelles as you portion the fish – removing the strings and peeling back and discarding the skin from the salmon. Discarding also the aromatics and removing the skin from the bottom fillet, he helps you transfer everything into platter.</p><p>You divide the fish in 7, seasoning it with more salt and pepper and spooning warm chanterelles over. There’s<em> ooohs</em>and <em>aahs</em> when you make the table and call the others – everyone looking impressed and hungry at the food prepared. </p><p>--- </p><p> <br/>The food is spectacular to say the least – Hotch has to admit it too, and he says so, while everyone is complimenting and thanking <em>the chefs. </em>He notices you’ve grown quieter since returning from cooking and he’s curious. He notes the many glasses of wine you drink as well. He tries his hardest not to <em>actually</em> count them – not when the others are drinking the same amount, as another bottle joins the table. They all seem looser around you too. It’s almost rounding 10.30 when Garcia calls Morgan and they switch back, trying to regain composure. </p><p>“What is it baby girl?” Morgan answers, voice too sultry and slurred than usual. From the other side of the table, you shoot Morgan a surprised look. </p><p>He laughs at something Garcia tells him, and then with a warning, “I’m putting you on loudspeaker – please behave.” </p><p>“Hard to do, my chocolate thunder-”  </p><p>Hotch sees, amused, the way your face scrunches up more in confusion, eyes darting from the phone to Morgan. </p><p>“-but I was scouring the deep dark net, and Brook’s because I’m dying to know what<em> Clover </em>is-” </p><p>Morgan interrupts her, only to reprimand. </p><p>“Are you taking a break as well, though? Because I know that big beautiful brain of yours does not operate at its full potential without sleep and food.” </p><p>The others around the table chuckle and smile. </p><p>“Yes, obviously. But I was too curious over this <em>super-secret</em> rich people’s club and you know how I get when you throw secret, mysterious stuff my way, especially -” </p><p>Hotch seems to be the most sober out of all of them, being the only one sensing that Garcia is about to spiral into rambling. </p><p>“Garcia” he calls. It works at making her stop. </p><p>“Right” she says to herself, “As I was saying, I was searching high and low in the seas of information, and I think I might have found <em>Clover </em>” </p><p>Hotch sees you straighten up. </p><p>“I cannot be sure though, because I only found traces of mentions in the phone messages exchanged between the gentlemen of Brook’s. All I can say is that there’s going to be a race tomorrow and whoever bids the highest – or shows any kind of interest to participate will be invited in.” </p><p>She lets her words sink, and they all take a while to think them over. </p><p>Prentiss responds first, “So, we go undercover?” she looks at Hotch for directions. All of them do – even you. </p><p>“That seems to be only way” he says. </p><p>“I can get you in” you shoot from the other side of the table, voice confident and high – effective in catching their attention swiftly. “I’m recognizable – they already know me. If new faces show up, they might be suspicious.” </p><p>“You’re not trained for undercover” he retorts. </p><p>“Then train me” you reply just as fast. </p><p>“No” he says. </p><p>“I can wear wires or whatever it is you want me to. Even a teeny tiny,” you pinch with a finger and a thumb, shrugging “-microphone if you wish – relaying to me what you want me to say. And I won’t steer away from what you instruct” </p><p>“You’re not going undercover” he says firmly.  </p><p>He doesn’t catch the way the other look back and forth from him to you, like the audience of a tennis match. </p><p>“Fine then I will be a robot and learn all the lines beforehand.” </p><p>He picks up the glass of wine, wetting his mouth – he feels it dry up for some reason. </p><p>“We don’t know what Clover even is” he says, words a bit harsher than before, “We have no information over it apart from the fact that the last person who joined was murdered.” </p><p>That seems to make you pause and rethink your tactic. But it doesn’t seem to convince you – not by the way he sees your mouth open again, ready to argue - </p><p>“Hotch, ” Prentiss interrupts them tentatively, “I can go with her” </p><p>“Yes,” Morgan jumps in, glad someone else took the fall in cutting off the heated match “We can all be around – doesn't necessarily mean we’re rich people or want to join Clover just because we are watching a horse race.” </p><p>“Right” Reid joins in too, “And it’s a good moment to see who is around. I can collaborate with Garcia and feed her information on who the audience is.” </p><p>Hotch looks at them – becoming aware of the fact that they don’t seem to wait for his guidance anymore. Perhaps it’s the alcohol that has made them more courageous – or perhaps t’s the alcohol that has made <em>him</em> more stubborn. </p><p>“I can accompany you” Rossi says, looking at you – in turn you flash him a smile.</p><p>That same weird feeling is back, bubbling inside his stomach and rising to his throat like acid. He reaches for the tie around his neck, loosening it up with quick hands. It doesn’t actually help him breathe easier. Not even when he unbuttons the collar of his shirt. </p><p>“I’m rich” he tells the others while staring at Hotch,” notoriously so – it won’t be that hard to believe if I want to bet on horses” </p><p>Prentiss and Morgan share a look, exchanging playful smiles with one another. He knows <em>now</em> what they’re thinking. </p><p>“No” Hotch hears himself saying aloud, ”I’ll go with her -” he says not looking your way. ”She’ll wear a wire, and we can make an actual plan tomorrow, when<em> everyone</em> is sober.” </p><p>The seriousness of his tone finalizes the conversation, and everyone is quick to agree. It’s not until he’s the only one in the living room, everyone heading to their bedrooms that he realizes he might have gotten a bit more angry than necessary. Dave returns from the kitchen, picking up the suit jacket he’d thrown over a couch. It takes one quick scan of his friend, to realize the worry that’s struck him.  </p><p>“You know” Dave says, not looking his way, “you catch more bees with honey than vinegar” </p><p>Hotch throws him a look. “<em>What</em>?” </p><p>“I’m just saying” Dave says smiling, too pleased with himself, “Take that to mean what you want.” </p><p>He watches Dave head to the door, wanting to go to bed as well. </p><p>“Isn’t it <em>flies </em> ?” Hotch asks. “The expression is flies, <em>not bees</em>.” </p><p>Dave chuckles, smug look on his face. “<em>She </em> ’s more of a bee, don’t you think?”  </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You excuse yourself after some time – in the midst of another joke by Agent Rossi of his time with Gideon, and head to the kitchen to clean up. The long day has drained you completely, as has the necessity to resurface the past with your husband. The silence after a while signifies, they’ve gone to bed – and the quietude of the house fills you up again. </p><p>“You’re not going to sleep?” Agent Hotchner asks, walking inside, catching you in the middle of pouring another glass of wine.</p><p>His voice is soft. It feels like there’s no hidden meaning behind his question apart from genuine curiosity. His eyes wander around the space – taking in the large kitchen island, the green countertops, the small paintings adorning the walls, of the sea and forests, the large floor to ceiling windows overlooking the garden he’d visited not long ago with Gideon. And even your full glass of wine.  </p><p>“Not yet. It’s still early” you reply.</p><p>It’s almost 11am. But you don’t look forward to sleeping in a room where Nathan’s face in the large portrait painting stares straight at you in bed. Your eyes linger on his figure. His posture is not as strained as it always is, his hair a bit disheveled as is the tie around his neck, loosened and hanging low from the unbuttoned collar. Your mind rehashes the sound of his voice from this morning – the softness and tenderness of it as he was speaking about his son.</p><p>You get the same feeling as back then – that you’re witnessing a rare occurrence.  </p><p>He walks in, and pauses in the middle, as if waiting for your invitation to stay first. He’d been inside the kitchen countless times before, even when he helped bring back the plates with JJ and Agent Prentiss. </p><p>He runs a hand through his hair and that makes the breath catch in your throat – it makes his strictly-gelled hair sticks out, few strands falling over his forehead above his right eyebrow. You shoot back an answer, placing back the glass over the countertop. </p><p>“You?”  </p><p>Talking seems to remind you who he is and why he’s in your house – and<em> what he does for a living</em>.  </p><p>He shakes his head, “I never sleep well when in the field” he confesses. </p><p>“Oh” you let out, nearing him, “is there anything I can help with? Maybe other pillows or sheets and blankets?” </p><p>His eyebrows furrow as he throws you a strange look – like you’d offered him knives and guns to sleep with instead.  </p><p>“No, thanks. It’s just… being away from home” </p><p><em> Maybe from his family too. </em> </p><p>“Oh”  </p><p>That seems to be your go-to response to whatever he says tonight.  </p><p>“I, uh, wanted to talk to you about today” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and his white button-up stretches over the expanse of his wide shoulders with his movements.  </p><p>“Sure” you nod, mimicking his posture, hands in the pockets of your dress.  </p><p>“You did exceptional work today – without your help we would still be making up theories about Black with no success.” </p><p>You scan the room, making it obvious to him that you’re doing so. Even as you feel your heart pound in your chest - an effect of his kind words. </p><p>"<em>What </em>– what is it?” </p><p>“Oh, I’m just looking for a phone to call you an ambulance-“ he cocks an eyebrow, “because you’re <em>clearly</em> having a stroke” </p><p>At that his lips pull tight at the sides of his mouth, dimples surfacing. </p><p>“Funny” he retorts.  </p><p>You shrug, “I <em>am </em>actuallyconcerned. Are you doing okay?” you close in the distance, raising a hand to fan air at him, “Do you feel faint? Or hot? Because you look a bit flushed-“ </p><p>He shakes his head, the rebel strands of hair moving too. </p><p>“None of those are signs of a stroke-“ </p><p>You hoist yourself up on your toes, a hand up, wanting to reach out for his forehead, even with your smaller stature. </p><p>“Are you sure you don’t have a fever-“ </p><p>His hand is fast, gripping your wrist at once. It’s not harsh or painful, but it catapults you back to the first time he’d done so, years ago. It’s as if the kitchen falls apart around you both, and the walls of your old house build back up. You’re back in your dirty trailer, young and naïve for a bit longer, before…  </p><p><em> Before </em>  he and Gideon had come to crush any hopes – <em>before</em> they’d made you realize the truth about your father. Your eyes go to his tie, remembering the texture on your palm of the red one he’d had that day, paired with <em>that</em> gray suit.</p><p>The feeling of his large warm hand over yours is the next memory that floods your body like a crushing wave – as is the absolute hatred you’d felt as he’d touched you under the pretense of protecting his colleague. It’s <em>insane</em> that you still feel that same intensity of emotion – that you’d held on to it through all these years.  </p><p>He was just a man – he <em>is </em>just a man, like many others.  </p><p>“You have a habit of doing that” you hear yourself say, and a breath huffs out of him in response – the smell of wine from his mouth enveloping your senses. </p><p>His hold on your wrist loosens, but not before he gives the smallest squeeze – shooting heat straight into your bloodstream. It clouds your thoughts and confounds you more. You pull, wanting to retract your hand and he lets it slip through his fingers. You swallow nothing, feeling your mouth dry up. </p><p>His hands don’t go back into his pockets.  </p><p>“If you’re not comfortable with tomorrow -” he starts, rehashing the discussion you’d had over the dinner table. “Rossi can accompany you to the racetrack. Even Morgan with a bit of training-” </p><p>“Agent Rossi?” you interrupt with a coy smile on your lips, “you want me to become the talk of this town, right? They’ll say I’m after some other man with money – my title as a <em>gold digger</em> would really be dusted off.” </p><p>He scoffs, dimples reappearing once again – he's not glad per se, or relieved – he's just <em>appreciative </em>that you’re refusing Rossi. And he's lighter for having let go of the envious feeling he'd gotten before at dinner, seeing you talking so easily with everyone else <em>but</em> him.</p><p>“Agent Morgan is good as well.” He continues, eyes following the movement of your hands. You cup your chin, looking up at the ceiling as if running it through your mind first. </p><p>“Hm, does he know horse race terminology?” </p><p>“No” Agent Hotchner answers with no hesitation – he doesn’t even know if Morgan does or not. But he’s not going to ask. He has no desire to. </p><p>You try to stifle the smile on your lips, with no avail. </p><p>“Dr. Reid looks like he does though.” You say, testing the waters. It doesn’t even feel like a meaningful conversation – it’s just an easy push and pull that bounces between the both of you. </p><p>He nods, “Could be true” he answers, “but...” he speaks softly, holding your gaze, an eyebrow lifting up, “if you were to be confronted with paparazzi again...” </p><p>“Ah,” you breathe out, nodding. His mind is unconsciously registering the small exhales you let out, the way your voice sounds almost like honey, drawling out soft and sweet. </p><p>“you are right. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” </p><p>He shakes his head – he's fishing for something, for the admission that you don’t mind his presence anymore, that you could work with him, that you’d <em>want</em> to. </p><p>You cock your head to the side, a few red strands of hair falling over your cheek, brushing against your jawline, coming to land over the side of your neck. </p><p>“Then, Agent Prentiss?” you ask. “She could be<em> interesting. </em>There’s no such rumors about me on the tabloids yet.” </p><p>You've caught him seeking what –<em>validation - </em>  you think? Or he’s asking you show gratitude for this afternoon in dealing with that man? Or maybe, he wants you to hear you say the words yourself – and ask him for help? But you’re the one helping them. He needs to say it<em> first</em>. </p><p>“Agent Jareau, better yet” He offers and you chuckle. </p><p>“Then, it’s settled.” you say. </p><p>“It is.” he agrees, nodding, but you see his hesitation – <em>come on, </em>you urge him in your mind<em>, just ask. </em> </p><p>At this moment – the <em>most </em>inopportune, he realizes - David Rossi’s words rattle around in his brain. </p><p>
  <em> You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. </em>
</p><p>He hates it, that he could be right after all. </p><p><em> “ </em>I’ll follow your lead” he says then. You perk up, slight hesitation marking your features.  </p><p>“Do you want me to <em>actually</em> call you an ambulance?” you ask – a tad happier over his resignation of the battle. </p><p>“I’ll even bet on the horses you tell me too, if necessary.” </p><p>“With <em>whose </em>money?” You shoot back. “You’re not rich” </p><p>“You don’t know how much an FBI unit chief is paid” he says, voice cocky and self-assured, hand going up to his tie – flashing you his Rolex watch. </p><p>“Fine” you let out, staring at his large hand and fingers, rather than the object wrapped around his wrist, “I can’t wait for tomorrow, then” </p><p>“Til tomorrow, then” he says, gaze lingering over your face. He’s<em> definitely</em> drunker than he thought. It’s the only reason to why he forgets where he is, what he does, or even his name as his entire attention is caught by the curls at the ends of your hair, sticking to the sweat he sees prickling on your neck.  </p><p>“Til tomorrow” you repeat softly, breathing him in again – his cologne sweetly sharp and musky - not getting enough of it.  </p><p>He nods, rocking forward an inch and you hold your breath. But he steps away, his sudden distancing taking with him all the heat you felt in your belly.  </p><p>Your mind is clouded with silly dreams when you sleep that night. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>.... yes maybe Hotch was jealous !)<br/>i was tryin something with this chapter - aka that feeling of will-they-won't-they? and that sweet tension, soo i hope that came across here! hope to god ! lmao<br/>(if not pls lemme know so i can just... u know... stop) lmao</p><p> </p><p>as always! thanks for reading! thnx for the comments i love yall 💕💕💕<br/>as always: lemme know what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Off to the Races</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You're off to the races undercover, helping the case - and you run into an old flame from the past.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>They do be undercover, though...<br/>theme of today is DENIAL! 😌</p><p>hey all!!! thnx so much for reading im so 💕💕<br/>This took me a shit ton of time because i've been googling so much random crap lmao like... do i look like i know anything about horses? or racetracks? nope! but now i do! hopefully lmao. i hope this still makes sense bcs i did my research, ok! if not, pls take it with a grain of salt<br/>also a long one bcs i wanted to be done with horses in 1 chapter and i did it 😌</p><p>I hope you enjoy!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the first time in a <em>long </em>time, you’re giddy for <em>still</em> finding yourself in your house. When you wake up you see the white sheet you’d draped over the portrait painting instead of Nathan's face. You’d definitely gone overboard the night before. Tiptoeing around like a thief, you’d found every single photo around the house of Nathan – of you and <em>your husband</em> and stuck them deep into his closet. And what you couldn’t hide, you covered with sheets. Everything he’d ever touched.</p><p>Which left you with no exposed furniture in the bedroom – everything apart from the bed. It didn’t change much but at least you could sleep lighter. The smell of coffee is another thing that gets you out of bed too. You’re grateful that you’d left the floors closer to the kitchen to the agents, if this how you were going to be woken up every day.</p><p>Making your way downstairs in your state – drowsy with sleep and still in your nightgown, you find the entire team talking over the kitchen table. It’s commendable that they’re taking your words ‘<em>make yourself at home</em>’ to the T. They’re in their suits and official outfits already, drinking coffee. You should have figured they’d be up early to work. </p><p>“Morning!” you call out and they respond in smiles and little waves (this being Dr. Reid), as you make a beeline to the coffee machine. </p><p>“Please never stop making coffee, I love waking up with the smell of it” </p><p>When it’s ready, you turn with the mug towards them again – noting that they’re all dead silent, watching you. </p><p>“Uh, everything okay?” </p><p>The girls, JJ and Agent Prentiss, watch you with a small smile. You instinctively look at Agent Hotchner – with his suit, and ever-present stern face, he’s the epitome of professionalism. But so are all the others, you note – a bit too strict and frigid. </p><p>“If you want, I can lend you something to wear-“ you offer, joining them near the table. It’s only pure necessity that you position yourself on the right of Agent Hotchner, still seated – only because he’s the head of the table and they can look at you more easily. </p><p>“I don’t think you’re being <em>very  </em>undercover” you turn to Agent Hotchner, “don’t you think?” </p><p>He keeps his attention to the others, his words directed only to them. “Yes, try not to look official.” </p><p>You eye Dr. Reid and Morgan as well –  </p><p>“I can lend something to you guys, as well. But if you don’t want to change, then taking off your suit jacket is a start-“ </p><p>Agent Morgan follows your suggestion with no hesitation, ridding himself of the suit jacket at once. </p><p>“-and the vest.” You tell Dr. Reid, who looks saddened by the prospect. “And maybe untuck your shirt and roll up your sleeves so you look more casual.” </p><p>Agent Rossi grins, watching the boys scramble to follow your directions. He doesn’t need any – because he looks nothing like a federal agent even in his suit and tie. </p><p>“You’re fine but you know that” </p><p>“I do” he says, grin splitting his face. </p><p>You turn at last to Agent Hotchner at your right, sitting beside you. Last evening is fresh on your mind as if it had happened mere moments ago. But he doesn’t let you speak, as he suddenly stands, turning to look at his team. </p><p>“Prentiss, JJ, please prep her with how she should act and what to say as well. We will wait.” </p><p>He doesn’t say anything else or meet your eyes, but takes his cup of coffee and leads the others to the living room. <em>Well</em>, not the first time a man has been passive-aggressively silent.  </p><p>You lend JJ a mid-length white dress, and Agent Prentiss a red one – both of them surprised and shocked by the fact that this was the fashion style at the races. </p><p>“I know” you say, “I was as surprised as you but rich people like keeping appearances.” You don a short floral dress loose around your torso – enough so to conceal the wire taped to your chest. They tell you to act normal, be yourself and if someone approaches you, to act charming and interested – the same pep talk you’d given yourself almost a year ago on your first ever racetrack. The irony is not lost on you. </p><p>When you’re back downstairs, everyone looks ready to depart. You stop Agent Hotchner when you close the exterior door – as the others split into two cars and leave. </p><p>“You’re not following your own directions, Agent” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>He’s wearing a black suit today, white button-up and a gray checkered tie, and if he wasn’t a federal agent, you’d think he was a lawyer.  </p><p>“<em>Try not to look official </em>?” you repeat his own words. “You look like a fed” </p><p>He takes off his suit jacket as an answer and heads to his car - you follow suit, stopping before his door. You don’t make an effort to move. </p><p>His eyebrows knit together - “I’m not changing” </p><p>“May I?” you raise your hands, looking pointedly at the tie around his neck. You intend to wait for permission but your fingertips reach out with a mind of their own, brushing over it tentatively – yet you still, waiting for a signal. His Adam’s apple bops once as he swallows, holding your gaze. Then, almost inaudible: </p><p>“Yes”  </p><p>He bends down, until you’re able to reach his collar comfortably at your height. You grab the necktie tail first – unable to help yourself, maybe as a strange rush of nostalgia. Flipping it over, you read the engraved letters of the label. </p><p>“Wow, <em>Gucci </em> ” you tease. “Are you secretly<em> loaded</em>, Agent?”  </p><p>He peers down at you, the rise of his cheekbones and the small smile on his lips making you grin in return. </p><p>You run your fingers upwards slowly, until you reach his collar – and he cranes his neck, looking up. Morning stubble lines the skin over his neck and jawline – it causes you to pause as you allow yourself a second to study the valleys of his face. It's not your fault that he frowns so much that when he doesn’t your first reaction is to stare at him longer – rereading him as if trying to comprehend a scientific formula. And you’d never been great on those either – it’s<em> definitely </em>  why you’re staring.</p><p>
  <em>It’s normal.</em>
</p><p>You begin by loosening the knot by pulling it side to side with your fingers, until the backend comes out. The smell of his cologne is fresher, deeper than the night before and it engulfs you at once. With a thumb and index finger you pull out the long end  of the tie first. You <em>try </em>  your best to be laser-focused on the gray checkered tie – <em>only</em> on that, but you’re too aware of the broadness of his shoulders, the toned chest and torso you can almost see through the white button-up. And the closeness of his body to yours makes you burn up.</p><p>It slows down your movements, but at least your hands are not shaking. Once the long end is completely out, you push it back through the loosened loop, knuckles accidentally brushing the skin of his neck and jawline. That same heat floods your face and neck as you hear him breathe in deeply, and a “sorry” leaves your lips.  </p><p>Tugging with your fingers on both sides of the loop, you loosen the whole thing, until the tie is reduced to a gray strip that hangs around the nape of his neck. You stop. There’s nothing that can make you reach out and <em>actually </em>unbutton his collar, although you have the strangest itch to do so. Agent Hotchner seems to read  the hesitation in your eyes, or maybe he’s too impatient, because he does it himself, opening the top button.</p><p>He straightens up, and keeping his eyes on you, he swiftly yanks off the tie in one quick movement. You’re <em>breathless</em>. No reason <em>or </em> excuse. It had never crossed your mind before, or ever, that a simple tie would have made you feel as hot and bothered as a kiss or <em>anything else</em>. But your mind is blank now, even as you watch him roll the tie around his finger – in that same maintenance etiquette that Carol had taught you. When she had given you those lessons, it had been to teach you patience and control. Now, it feels like they're long forgotten. </p><p>“Better?” he asks, studying your face. </p><p>You don’t let the silence seep in so you talk. </p><p>“Sure. Ready to watch a horse race and join a secret club?” </p><p>He nods, raising a hand, motioning for you to go ahead first.  </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch is the one driving and he’s happy for it – for the distraction it provides. Because all he feels is the imprint of your fingertips over his neck and the ghosting of your touch over his torso, while tracing the length of his tie. There’s a rush of adrenaline in his bloodstream that makes him sharper though. It’s how he catches that you’re fidgeting in the passenger seat. It's the smallest action.</p><p>You’re looking out the window, and the rest of you is leaning comfortably against the seat. Yet your hands are clasped together over your lap, left thumb pressed in the middle of your right palm, drawing circles. He’s aware of the wire on you, and the fact the others can hear, but he wants to reach out all the same. </p><p>“You’ll do fine undercover” he says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. </p><p>You swivel your head around. “Hm?”</p><p>He must have cut your line of thought because that’s all you say to him. </p><p>“Undercover” he repeats, “just try not to think about the wire or the earpiece. You’ll do fine.” </p><p>“Oh” you let out again, “Yes. I’m not worried” </p><p>He’s not convinced, so he tries to distract you in other ways. “You’ve worn a wire before?”  </p><p>You snort, “Right. Billions of times before. It’s like a second skin now.”  </p><p>The usual aloofness and self-confidence that he’s come to recognize as part of your nature is lacking now. It was there this morning, when you waltzed in the kitchen wearing nothing but a silk navy nightgown, not a care in the world for the people in your kitchen, so he pushes again. </p><p>“Then it’s the horses” he says flatly, “You’re afraid of the horses” </p><p>“<em>Bingo</em>” you chuckle, “I’m terrified of horses. Now, an arena full of them is not ideal for a person like me. Wouldn’t you think?” </p><p>The self-assuredness is back through your tone of voice – yet the movement of your hands says otherwise. His instinct also tells him that it’s guilt clouding your thoughts. Maybe something to do with your husband, Nathan.</p><p>It’s why he’d pushed to be the one accompanying you – to study you around the same people Nathan had been close to. His murderer wouldn’t be so willing and calm around them all. <em>No</em>, the murderer would start to fidget unconsciously,<em> slowly</em>, like you are doing now.  </p><p>“You’re doing <em>your thing</em>” you say with a bite, “I have nothing to hide. I’ve just never worked undercover with the police” </p><p>“You insisted on doing this” he reminds you. </p><p>“Yes.” you rebuke, “I <em>do </em>remember last night” </p><p>You let the last words hang in the air together with the implication of your last discussion to him, of what sounded almost like a promise for today – of what, neither of you is certain. </p><p>“Just do what Prentiss and JJ told you to. Act normal.” </p><p>You nod. </p><p>“If you get stuck, Prentiss will feed you words through your earpiece” </p><p>“Of course,” you say flatly, rolling your eyes. “Great talk. Thanks” </p><p>But you’ve passed to twisting the ring on your index finger, and Hotch fixates on it, and on how you can’t seem to meet his gaze. </p><p>“It’s my father, okay?” You finally snap. “I still think he’s responsible for these murders. I know your team thinks otherwise but I’m not convinced. So, what if it’s not that deep and it’s not about Clover? But he’s just working at the racetrack? And murdering people instead of scooping up horse shit or whatever else he should be doing? Why isn’t it him? He’s an escaped convict” </p><p>You turn to look at him as the car stops in front of traffic lights.  </p><p>Hotch inhales deeply – they'd never discussed it with you, deciding that if you were to know your father was not the prime suspect then you’d switch behavior quickly. Maybe even kick them out of the house – this was something Dave had reminded the BAU this morning.</p><p>And there were many reasons why it couldn’t be Davis Finch: change in victimology, signature, even geographical profile. It was rare for all the factors to change at once – though not impossible. It was better for their investigation that they don't limit themselves to one suspect. </p><p>“What if I see him?” you whisper, “What if I<em> meet</em> him?” </p><p>Hotch is speechless, unsure on how to respond. There is nothing he can really say that wouldn’t come out as a desperate trial to assure you that he will not leave your side long enough for that to occur. </p><p>“How would you want me to act then – <em>normal</em>?” </p><p>He doesn’t have an answer, not a factual one that could help.  </p><p>“As long as your normal isn’t punching him.” </p><p>You sigh. “I’ll stick strictly to kicking, then.” </p><p>The fidgeting stops. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Agent Hotchner says at your side as you reach the table, amongst the crowd of people lingering around. The big hall is filled with people watching the screens with the names of the horses, and the coefficients for the bets.  </p><p>“Which one are you going to choose? Did you read Garcia’s suggestions?” </p><p><em> Right,</em> you think, as you plant your elbows over the table – Penelope had sent you all a list of the biggest winners in the race so far. You hadn’t even opened the text.  </p><p>“I’ll just wing it” you whisper back, as you see the names of the horses. One in particular makes your memories emerge.  </p><p>-</p><p><em> “Nate? How about Desert Orchid?” You ask again, and his arms loop around you, pulling you in, until your back is tucked against his chest. You try to swat his hands away but he shakes his head. </em> </p><p><em> “We’re not here to bet” He whispers over your ear. </em> </p><p><em> “Then, what’s the point?” You turn around to face him and he’s smiling ear to ear, keeping his arms around your  </em> <em> waist </em> <em> .  </em> </p><p><em> “People get addicted to these things – I want to know what the fuss is about.” You say with a playful smile. </em> </p><p><em> “You’re the one who told me to integrate: mix and match?” </em> </p><p><em> He shakes his head, “No. No betting.” </em> </p><p><em> You point at the first name your eyes land at, then turn to see it, “Oh. How about Boomerang? Love that name” </em> </p><p><em> His voice is harsher, “No”. It makes you twist around to face him, only to check if you’d actually heard him right. The grin is wiped off his face, as he looks at the screen behind you. </em> </p><p><em> “I told you no.” </em> </p><p><em> “Okay, jeez. It's my money so I can spend it how I wish – and it’s just a joke.” </em> </p><p><em> But he doesn’t let you out of his hold. </em> </p><p><em> “Honey, I promise you betting is not the fun part.” It’s gentler but the eerie feeling that’d taken over you doesn’t dissipate - </em> </p><p>- </p><p>“Boomerang” you tell the man on the other side, then you give a number – relayed to you by Penelope and Dr. Reid from your earpiece.  </p><p>When you’re all done and set, you both make your way outside to the VIP balconies. Unlike the hall where you came from, the balcony has fewer people – 20 or so, all distanced through a few high tables covered in white silk tablecloths. You swipe a glass of martini from a passing waiter, ignoring the way Agent Hotchner stares daggers at you. Taking a small empty high table in the middle that looks out to the tracks, you place your glass down. A few people turn around, noting your presence – all familiar to you.  </p><p>Living amongst their social circles wasn’t something you’d ever wanted to do. You’d told so to Nathan as well, when you’d gotten engaged.  But he insisted, saying they were his friends and “family”. Hence, you’d started following him at all these events – ballroom dances at charities, racetracks, picnics, and vacations. Another girl meets your eyes, looking you up and down and turns to her partner to scoff. You recognize them as Nathan’s college friends. <em>Of course</em>, they didn’t like you. Of course, they didn’t keep contact even when Nathan was there – let alone after. </p><p>You glance at Agent Hotchner again. For an undercover fed and all his big talk, he looks way too obvious – eyes darting back and forth, checking out every person who enters, and even looking at waiters who pass by for way too long. And he’s too close – his arm brushes against yours more than a few times, and it puts you on edge. A waitress passes by and he observes her too as she leaves a glass of wine a few tables away.</p><p>This time, when a man moves between tables, he steps behind you giving him space – pressing a palm on the small of your back as he shifts, making you straighten up. His warmth transfers to you through that only point of contact. It’s so sudden it almost makes you choke on the sip of martini you’d just taken. He moves back to his place by your right as if nothing happened, but his large warm hand remains a heated mark on your skin, even over the dress.  </p><p>“<em>Jesus</em>” you breathe out, and when you inhale all you can smell is his cologne –<em> him</em>.</p><p>He’s making things too difficult, <em>too</em> confusing.</p><p>“Can you just-" he turns to look at you, “- <em>just stop</em>?” </p><p>“What?”  </p><p>You glare at him, your brain scrambling for something logical to say. You whisper-shout:</p><p>“You’re acting like a bodyguard. No drinks, no food, not even a cigarette or whatever. And you ju-just" you stammer through the rest, “you’re not even acting like we know each other. Can you smile or laugh or something?” </p><p>“You want me to <em>laugh</em>?” His face is dead-serious. </p><p>You roll your eyes. You need him <em>away</em>. “I <em>want </em> you to take a lap-” </p><p>He doesn’t react – face still neutral.  </p><p>“Take a lap! Talk to people” </p><p>“That’s not what we’re here for.” he reminds you, “That’s not the point.” </p><p>“Look” you lean both elbows over the table, “why don’t you get me a glass then?” </p><p>He bops his head to the martini in your hand, not even halfway empty. “Is your drink not enough?” </p><p>Keeping your eyes on him, you down the whole thing, then push the empty glass his way.  </p><p>“What drink?” </p><p>You’re sure he will scold you (if he even does that) or reprimand you. Perhaps also remind you once again of the reason why you’re all here but he nods once, giving up his resolve. </p><p>“Fine” he breathes out. </p><p>You watch him walk amongst the people towards the bar. Even though nobody knows him, his entire demeanor commends people to part, moving out of his way so he can pass. It would be remiss of you to not notice how women look at him too. They crane their necks, twisting their heads and blatantly staring.</p><p>It makes a laugh bubble out of your throat – <em>why are they so caught by this tall, strange man, who seems like he won’t pay attention to them?  </em> He’s not even <em>that </em>attractive. </p><p>He reaches a waitress – blonde with a short ponytail, who swivels to face him a bit annoyed. Her entire posture changes though when she sees his face – she grins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and moves unnecessarily close to him, under the pretense of not hearing him well. Agent Hotchner tells her something because she throws her head back in laughter and – </p><p><em>-that's a bit too much</em>, you think. He’s <em>never</em> been <em>that </em>funny. You can count on one hand the times he’d tried to crack a joke. And they were never once hilarious. She nods at his words, then turns to give directions to the bartender, her ponytail flicking sideways – <em>that’ </em> s some kind of move.</p><p>What’s next – <em>twirling a strand of hair around </em><em>one </em><em>finger</em> as she stares into his deep dark eyes? <em>Complimenting</em> his big broad shoulders... <em>Or what?</em></p><p>– another exaggerated laugh and –  </p><p><em>Oh  </em> <em> Jesus</em><em>, she’s shameless  </em> – you notice her move closer, handing him two drinks, hand latching around his forearm. Why doesn’t she just,  <em> you know</em>, ask him to take off his clothes right then and there and cut the play-act?  </p><p><em> Stupid, ugly, bitc- </em> </p><p>“I thought you’d never show up around here anymore.” </p><p>You whip around fast, face falling immediately once you recognize him. Blonde-haired, tall and blue-eyed and with a scruff that makes him look like a bozo in contrast to the burgundy suit he wears, Roger Millen stands before you. </p><p>“Roger” you greet, “been a while since I’ve last seen you” </p><p>He leers at you, smile of his looking dishonest, bringing out goosebumps of discomfort over your skin – <em>yes</em>, maybe you would have realized sooner who your husband was, had you paid more attention to the people he called friends. </p><p>“I didn’t think you’d have the guts to show up” he says, taking a step forward, “considering we're all Nathan's friends” His alcohol breath reaches you first, then his cologne. </p><p>“Jesus, Roger. Can you <em>please</em> say what you want to say from afar?” </p><p>That’s not the reaction he expected and it shocks him at first. It quickly disappears as he glares at you again. </p><p>“What are you doing here?” he demands, “You’re not welcome here.” </p><p>You pick up your glass, raising it up as if showing it to a toddler, “I’m drinking and watching a race – thought it was obvious. And I paid to be here. Isn’t that what everyone is doing?” </p><p>You place the glass over the table, but it topples over – his hand grips your wrist, halting your movements, nails digging into your skin. </p><p>“You never called <em>me </em>back-” </p><p>He ignites a fire in you that you’d thought had left since Nathan –<em> since forever</em>. Men touching you without permission always does, in ways that make you explode, but you can’t do that now. The rational part of your mind screams at you to keep control, because you have a job to do. </p><p>It doesn’t mean you’re going to be civil, though. He lets out a whimper as your crush the heel of your shoe over his toes, his hand letting you go at once. </p><p>“Grab me again, Roger, and <em>I swear</em> -” you push hard against his foot again, enough to make him let out another cry, audible only to your ears, “next time it’s going to be<em> another appendage</em>.” </p><p>You step away, and he distances himself. His face is flushed red, from both anger and pain. </p><p>“Now, try again – what did you want to say to me?”  </p><p>He tries – and fails – to hide the pain still visible on his face. </p><p>“Nathan changed after he got married” he sputters, “You <em>ruined </em> him.” </p><p>You know this isn’t about your husband – it had never been about Nathan when he asked to talk to you or for your attention. Not even when he called you incessantly once the news spread over Nathan’s disappearance – or when he showed up at your house almost every week. But he has no courage to say what he really wants to – so you feign ignorance. </p><p>“I should have told him the truth about us since the beginning and maybe-” </p><p>Well –<em> there it is</em>. You let out a laugh – cold, unemotional, and it doesn’t reach your eyes. </p><p>“What <em>us?” </em> You lean in closer so he can hear you properly, looking him straight in the eyes this time – so he can get rid of this fantasy he’s been harboring for god-knows how long. </p><p>“Roger, you were there so I could make Nathan jealous. You <em>knew it too</em>.” His face goes white at your words. You know the agents are listening to your conversation so you continue before they can craft their own theories. </p><p>“I was already with Nathan when we went out – but he didn’t want to be serious. Going out with you made him jealous and it<em> worked</em> and made him<em> want to commit.  </em>Do I need to remind you that you were the one to propose that ludicrous idea?” </p><p>He glares at you as he takes a step closer. </p><p>“You’re telling me our time together meant <em>nothing</em>?” </p><p>“No” you say, “I’m saying there was <em>no</em> time together.” </p><p>This time when he narrows the distance you don’t react.  </p><p>“I am the only one who knows you. The <em>only</em> one.” he pleads, “Who knows you like I do? Nathan didn’t –“ </p><p>“Roger-“ you interrupt, “<em>Unlike</em> my husband – I never kept any secrets. <em>None</em>. I even told him about how <em>lousy</em> you were in bed.” </p><p>His jaw falls open, unable to say anything else. </p><p>“I even told him about your shriveled-up small <em>dic</em>-“ </p><p>There’s a loud clearing of a throat at your side, and you step back, realizing late that you were just about to recount your entire relationship history to federal agents.  </p><p>“Your drink” Agent Hotchner says, holding up a glass. You take it, grimacing once you see it’s not alcohol but a soda. </p><p>Roger doesn’t leave. Instead, he turns to the agent, looking him up and down, face flushed red in jealousy. Then he glowers at you. </p><p>“Some nerve you have to show up with another man” he snaps. </p><p>Agent Hotchner moves closer, his arm brushing against yours again. </p><p>“Should I have stayed celibate? You didn’t either – not even <em>while</em> married as I recall.” </p><p>He scoffs, deep scowl on his face as he leaves your side, stopping in front of Agent Hotchner. </p><p>“Just so you know what you’re getting into – she eats up the men she’s with.” </p><p>Agent Hotchner keeps his eyes on the man, his arm snaking around your back, abruptly pulling you flush and quick to his side. His hand landing over your hip and his body pressed to yours make you instantly heat up. You turn to look at him in surprise as all thoughts leave you without a trace.  </p><p>“Oh, I’m <em>counting</em> on that” he replies, voice deep and husky.  </p><p>His thumb over your hipbone moves agonizingly slow, drawing slow circles over you, burning your skin through the dress. You take in a shuddering breath. In your peripheral vision you see Roger leave but Agent Hotchner doesn’t let you go. </p><p>“You okay?” He asks softly, eyes wandering over your face – you think it’s because he wants to study you, and try to extract any reaction over talking about Nathan.</p><p><em>And yet</em>, his dark eyes bore into yours with something else entirely. </p><p>You nod, not trusting yourself yet to speak.</p><p>Is he conscious of the way his fingers press over you? Or of the patterns he seems to be intent on marking over your hipbone? Is he doing it deliberately? Is this some trust test? </p><p>“The race will start in 2” You hear Agent Rossi say in your ear. It breaks the two of you apart, as you turn your attention to the racetrack.  </p><p>There’s a loud shot and then the race starts. You pay attention to the track before you, hoping your bet isn’t going to be the wrong one in order to get into Clover. Agent Hotchner beside you keeps his eyes on the audience.  </p><p>Boomerang is the American-bred stallion draped with an aquamarine cloth – the rider brandishing the same colors and they pick up pace fast. They pass 1, then 2 then 3 other horses and they take the lead.  </p><p>“<em>Holy shit </em>” you exclaim, as you watch him gallop and run.</p><p>Agent Hotchner turns to look at the race too, and then – the horse makes it, cutting to the finish line. It takes 2 minutes – but Boomerang wins against four racehorses by thirty-one lengths, setting the fastest time on a dirt track for 1 mile 4-furlong race in the last 4 years – all shouted by the announcer over the speakers of the arena. You watch it all, mouth agape, the small piece of paper of the receipt of your bet still on your hand. The wager you’d placed is incomparable to what you win. The announcer states that Boomerang has lost his first 17 races, only to win now unexpectedly. You stare at Agent Hotchner dumbstruck and he’s as shocked as you. </p><p>“Fuck-“ you hear Agent Prentiss let out in your earpiece. “You got that one right as rain” </p><p>“There’s someone at your 3 o’ clock.” Agent Morgan warns. And you try your hardest to not turn around immediately.  </p><p>“That was quite a win” – you whip around, still shocked. Roger stands beside you, hands in his pockets. There’s nobody else around. No other person like Agent Morgan had said. </p><p>“Looks like we get to see each other more often now” </p><p><em> Jesus –  </em>you don’t have time for this. Maybe the person who’s an initiator for Clover will not approach you if they see Roger hovering around. </p><p>“Roger - I don’t have patience for this,<em> again </em>“ </p><p>But before he says anything more, he drops a cellphone over your table, and retreats. Agent Hotchner throws you a look and the phone rings as soon as you pick it up. </p><p>“Madame Anderson” a coarse male voice greets, “It’s a pleasure to finally have you be a part of our group. If you could join us this evening in an event where we celebrate our winners, we would be delighted by your presence.” </p><p>Agent Hotchner takes out a napkin and a pen, ready to scribble down something for you to ask them or relay. You scramble for ways to stall as he writes.  </p><p>“That’s my husband’s surname” you hear yourself say, not even digesting the last part of the statement. </p><p>“Yes, and we’d be honored to finally have an Anderson in our midst.” </p><p>He’s almost done writing - </p><p>“Who is this?” you ask, but they ignore your question. </p><p>“I hope you accept our invitation at our cocktail party tonight at 8pm. We will send you an address promptly. See you this evening.” </p><p>They hang up and he hears it too, crumbling the napkin in his hands and sticking it back into his pocket.  </p><p>“Sorry” you mumble.  </p><p>He shakes his head, “They were fast. There’s no way we could have even tracked them” </p><p>You look out to the people again – Roger must be doing the rounds still as he moves from table to table, smiling and talking to people. You lean in to whisper an insane plan at Agent Hotchner.  </p><p>“No. That won’t work” </p><p>“You said you’d follow my lead” you remind him with a smile – and that seems to do the trick. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You wait until the arena closes – the parking lot now entirely empty apart from Agent Hotchner’s SUV, and Roger’s useless and stupidly expensive convertible car.  </p><p>Agent Hotchner is hidden, as you’d instructed, behind his SUV, while you lean over the hood of the 1959 Ferrari 250 GT, hem of your dress purposefully barely covering your thighs. Roger walks out, carrying his suit jacket in his hand, his shirt now unbuttoned all the way down his chest. As soon as he notices you his face changes – what was previously flippant anger and jealousy is replaced with lust. He looks you up and down as you straighten up, standing now before his car.  </p><p>He shakes his head, “You don’t call me,” he starts, raising a finger to count, “you avoid me, you don’t respond to my texts-”  </p><p>You roll your eyes, feigning a smile.  </p><p>“Fine” he says, slinging his jacket over his shoulder and raising his hands up, “you don’t respond even to my<em> innocent </em>texts when you get engaged. Then when I asked if you wanted my help in getting you out of that ridiculous allegation over embezzlement – what do you do? You choose <em>prison.</em>” He stops before you, hands over his hips. </p><p>“How am I supposed to take that -” he exhales, “<em>Fuck </em>”  </p><p>You shrug – you haven’t said a single word yet but he doesn’t even notice since he’s already monologuing.  </p><p>“You basically told me you’d rather be <em>imprisoned</em> than let me help you.” </p><p>You run it through your mind – you hadn’t really thought of him that much, truthfully.  </p><p>“Prison” he repeats, “you chose prison<em> over</em> me. How the fuck am I supposed to take that?” </p><p>He waits, watching you curiously. </p><p>“<em>Oh </em> ” you let out, ”you are <em>actually</em> expecting an answer?” </p><p>“Fuck you” he chuckles – the sound of it reminding you of why you’d entertained the thought over a year ago of being with him in order to move on from Nathan while you were hooking up with the intent of making the latter jealous.  </p><p>“What shady business are you pulling, Roger?” </p><p>He chucks his jacket into his car, refusing to meet your eyes. </p><p>“I don’t know what you mean.” </p><p>You wave the phone he’d left at your table in front of his face, “<em>This</em>? Who even called me?” </p><p>He circles the hood of his car, bypassing you completely to stop in front of the driver’s door. </p><p>“I’m not allowed to say. Maybe do what they tell you to and you’ll find out” he mutters.</p><p>“You know I never do what others tell me” </p><p>He looks up then, watching you in that same way he’d done over a year ago – the reason why you’d called it off. He’d been too caught up by everything, angry and aggressive to others, and taking everything too personally –<em> spoiled</em> to the core. </p><p>“Did you really love him?” he asks in a feeble voice, shoulders slouching.  </p><p>And you know what you have to tell him – Agent Hotchner had instructed you too after accepting your insane plan. You have to give him the answer he desires so he can trust you and give you the answers to the questions you want to ask him – though he'd said all that through his teeth.  </p><p>“What do <em>you</em> think?” you shoot back.  </p><p>He chuckles again, “Stop playing me. No bullshit. Did you love him?” He’s back to asking questions that don’t matter to him – only because he’s too cowardly to ask the ones that do. </p><p>You cut through the chase, only because your patience is thinning. “I <em>did</em> love you”  </p><p>He moves in the blink of an eye, and he stands before you, grabbing your arms, squeezing aggressively tight - </p><p>“You <em>loved </em>me?” </p><p>You nod, heart dropping to your stomach because his hold is painful and he’s <em>too</em> close – and you can’t budge or kick him or even crush his foot again and what if he kisses you or - </p><p>His grip on you fades in an instant - loud thud of a body slamming against metal echoing through the empty space. Agent Hotchner pushes his front to the hood of his SUV, bending him over it until the side of his face hits the surface of the car. He’s got his arms pinned behind his back, holding them firmly with one hand as he pushes his back, keeping him down. </p><p>“<em>fuck </em> ” Roger spits out, face squished against the hood. “<em>what the fuck? </em>” </p><p>You’re too struck by Agent Hotchner’s act – caught by the relief that washes over you after not having Roger near anymore mixed with something else more intense. He towers over Roger, legs pushing his feet part, and you’re sure that if he had handcuffs, he’d have already thrown him in the back of a police car.  </p><p>“I didn’t even touch her, <em>dude. Fucking psycho." </em> </p><p>Roger’s whimpers and cries make you regain composure.  </p><p>“Who the fuck is<em> this man</em>?” </p><p>You move towards Roger’s eyesight, daring a look at Agent Hotchner. The death stare he has on Roger and the scowl on his face shouldn’t make you stop and stare for so long – <em>shouldn't – </em>but it does. </p><p>“I met him in prison?” You throw out, biting your lip to contain the giggle that wants to escape your throat. Agent Hotchner glances at you at the statement, then raises his eyebrows. </p><p>“Right” you remember vaguely – <em>the plan. </em>You lower your head to Roger’s eyelevel. “Who the hell called me, Roger?” </p><p>“<em>What? That’s </em>what this is about? I told you I don’t know anything!” </p><p>“Right, so you’re <em>just</em> a messenger? A really bad telephone provider? What’s the deal, Roger? Who is it and why the phones?” </p><p>He chuckles then – surprising both you and the agent. </p><p>“You fucked up already – they track the phones. They've probably noticed you staying here after hours” </p><p>Agent Hotchner gives you an <em>I told you so </em> look and you roll your eyes. Even through your protests, he’d managed to convince you to hand over the phone to Dr. Reid – tasked with the duty to go back and link it to some sort of equipment so Penelope can analyze it and do her magic. <em>Well</em>, good thing the phone people think you’re back home. </p><p>You raise the flip phone again, opening it up and showing it to him - </p><p>“Shit” the smile wipes off his face.  </p><p>The phone is a toy phone that Agent Morgan had bought from a market close by. <em>Okay, so maybe Agent </em><em>Hotchner </em><em>had been right on all prospects. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>Now, who the hell are they?” </p><p>As if to emphasize your words, Agent Hotchner pushes him further over the car, Roger letting out a grunt of pain. </p><p>“<em>Fuck </em>  - okay, <em>okay</em>. I will tell you – please tell your boyfriend to chill.<em> Jesus</em>” </p><p>You throw another look at the agent, smiling at him unabashedly – Agent Hotchner<em> -</em> <em>your boyfriend?</em> He returns the look again, his frown deepening – his way to remind you to keep your head straight. </p><p>“They’re a club – <em>Clover </em>” </p><p>You share a look with Agent Hotchner, glad that working undercover had worked. </p><p>“They call in only wealthy people or suddenly-rich people – it's why they stick around racetracks. If you win a lot of money, you get invited to join them. And if you lose a lot of money it means you’re willing to risk. So, you can<em> invest </em>in them.” </p><p>“To do what?” you ask, “are they involved in drug-trafficking? In weapons? -” </p><p>Holding him down with only one hand, Agent Hotchner raises the other - gesturing you to slow your roll and the speculations. You stop and rephrase your questions.  </p><p>“Invest on <em>what</em>, Roger? If they’re so clean why do it through secret meetings and not by conferences or some other-“ </p><p>Another hand motion from Agent Hotchner and you bite your tongue. It’s not your fault that there’s adrenaline pumping you up. If being an agent meant roughing up people and questioning – that was already half your lifestyle described. And he looks so good doing it too – even giving you simple directions to calm down makes him seem authoritative and imposing.  </p><p>Roger lets out a huff, “I don’t know what they do - okay? I know it’s shady but they won’t let me in” </p><p>Your passion fades away at his words.<em> But he’s rich, and he gambles</em>. </p><p>“But you're rich and you’ve never made a sound expense in your life” you voice aloud, and point directly at the car that had cost him more than 10 million.  </p><p>“Fuck you!” he snaps “That car is fine!” </p><p>You raise your eyebrows, “<em>Fine</em>?” </p><p>“I lost all my money." he says defeated, "A year ago – when...” he gulps, “when we made our agreement -” </p><p>“<em>Oh</em>” you realize then why he’d been so insufferable, picking up fights with everyone around him, and <em>even you - </em>cool motive but not enough to excuse his shitty behavior.</p><p>“How did you lose millions?” You raise both hands at Agent Hotchner, apologizing to him for the needless question – but you need to know the answer. Roger ignores it, choosing to divert with other information.</p><p>“They found out right when I was about to join them – they said I could still be a part if I recruited people. But they don’t trust me enough to tell me anything. Because I have nothing. I know nothing! Trust me” </p><p>With your hands on your hips you shrug, “I mean, even <em>they </em>don’t.” You look at the car again. “Why not just sell the car, you dumbass? You’d probably get yourself out of the gutter.” </p><p>Agent Hotchner clears his throat, and you straighten up – it seems like Roger is useless after all. No info whatsoever on Clover apart from a confirmation. Agent Hotchner is seemingly in sync with you as he lets go of Roger’s pinned wrists.  </p><p>The latter stands up fast, distancing himself from both of you. </p><p>“You should bring him along” he says pointing a thumb to Agent Hotchner, “I’m sure he’ll fit right in” </p><p>“Just- get out, Roger” </p><p>You both watch him get into his car, the loud rumbling of his engine and scraping of wheels against asphalt following him as he drives off.  </p><p>“Who would have thought we’d make a good team, huh?” you joke, but Agent Hotchner doesn't comment, getting into the car. </p><p>The silence that ensues makes you realize that you’ll have to do this again – go undercover with him.</p><p>At an evening cocktail party out of all places. </p><p>--</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thnx for reading!!! 💕💕 and thnx for the love!! </p><p>and yes maybe this was all about rehashing the hottest moments of hotch in the series - aka taking off his tie? the bending down people to cuff them? yes all that!</p><p>as always lemme know what you think!!</p><p>and also maybe jealous hotch, and more ✨unjustifiable✨ touching in the next chapter? who knows 👀</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. A Burning Hill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On an another undercover mission with Agent Hotchner, your mind is somewhere else - your husband, Nathan.<br/>And yet, the man beside you has a gravitational pull you cannot seem to fight.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey all!<br/>TW: spice? idk mature content basically and yes since u asked for it here it is - 😇</p><p>writing ~spice makes me go through an existential crisis lmao as im painfully aware of my limitations with English<br/>Also im updating so early bcs i genuinely have to disappear for some uni submissions but at least I leave you with some mild spice!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"We should match our stories” you say – not bearing the silence in the car anymore. Not only because he’d been adamant in keeping you out of the loop for the rest of the day – updating his team, giving them directions, even future plans after he'd dropped you off at your house just to head back to the police department – but also because you can’t stand drowning in your own thoughts, and nightmares.  </p><p>Facing Roger after such a long time had pierced unhealed wounds, drawing blood – leaving you unbearably vulnerable for the first time since your father had been imprisoned. You’re thrown into the deep end of the well – unwillingly recalling the painful beginnings with Nathan. </p><p>-- </p><p><em> “</em><em>I’m Nathan. </em><em>What did you say your name was?” he cocks an eyebrow, looking you up and down again with a brazen smile.  </em> </p><p><em> “I didn’t” you huff out. </em>Great – another one <em>of these cocky young men, ready to shake his tail and flaunt his feathers. </em> </p><p><em> “I never introduced myself. And you’re here for another thing entirely, so why don’t you just pay attention to the gala.” </em> </p><p>
  <em> Unlike the others, he doesn’t scour away from your </em>
  <em>rude</em>
  <em> reaction. He nods, leaning with his back against the wall. He does as you s</em>
  <em>uggest </em>
  <em>– keeping quiet and watching the dance performance unfolding before you both. It’s a mixture of something contemporary with a mockery or criticism of the classical – that's what Carol had said earlier this evening when she’d handed you the pamphlet and urged you to join. </em>
</p><p><em>And you’d strained your neck, looking up and around to where she might </em> <em>  be.</em><em>When</em><em> you </em><em>couldn’t find her </em> <em> , </em><em>you’d given up, sta</em><em>nding in one spot in the big </em><em>room – before a performance started to happen, trapping </em><em>you </em><em>into this very corner until it finishes. </em> </p><p><em> “That dancer is seriously l</em><em>ooking </em><em>at his partner’s cleavage”  </em> </p><p><em> The comment draws a chuckle out of you – one that you have to stifle with a hand over your mouth. And it is true – it's what you’ve </em> <em>  been </em> <em>  fixating on for the past 20 minutes – the male dancer, wearing black tights and a loose shirt, keeps looking down the outfit of the other dancer, whenever he twirls around. </em> </p><p><em> “I mean, I would too” you let out, and this time he chuckles, not even bothering to hide it. The sound of his laugh makes a few people glare your way and others hush you both. </em> </p><p><em> You pay attention to him at last – standing tall in  </em> <em> aquamarine jacket and grey slacks</em><em>, looking expensive and like he’d been  </em> curated <em>  instead of dressed – he has a messy head of black hair, and a smile that takes up his whole face. </em> </p><p><em> You punch lightly his elbow, forcing him to </em>  compose<em> himself – it's what you say in a whisper as well. </em> </p><p>-- </p><p>You feel nausea rising up your throat, and you hug your stomach tight, silently making a pact with the contents of your stomach to stay put. Pressing on the button over the door, you open the car window a sliver, enough so that air can enter the tight space of the car.  </p><p>Agent Hotchner thumbs at the air conditioning, switching it off, opening his window completely at his side. </p><p>“We should” he says at last. “I’ll go along with whatever you decide to tell them.” </p><p>You scramble through your mind – trying very hard to recall what you’d just told him, or –<em>asked  </em>him? You’re uncertain, brain foggy with the sound of Nathan’s laughter rattling around in it. </p><p>He glances your way quickly, before turning his attention back on the road.  </p><p>“Are you doing okay?” </p><p>You hate it. You <em>hate</em> it so much. You feel the rage deep within your belly frizzing with bubbles ready to erupt – that he’s a profiler, that he can read your expressions, your tone of voice, everything. But most of all, you hate that you don’t feel like guarding yourself anymore. </p><p><em>You don’t. </em>You lack the strength tonight – of all nights. You happen to choose the one night you have to spend with him around, for god-knows how long. So, you <em>give up </em>tonight. If he reads something you should have hidden then <em>fuck it</em>.  </p><p>As soon as you’re ready to answer <em>truthfully </em>that question – you remember what you’d told him. </p><p>“Roger believes you’re my boyfriend.” you say looking at him, “I don’t hate that cover story.” </p><p>He keeps his gaze on the road as he drives you both to the location Clover had sent an hour ago. </p><p>“It’s good enough for me – if it’s for you.” </p><p>“Would it be believable?” he asks, glancing at you again. “After -” </p><p>You don’t let him say it – not tonight. He can’t say<em> his </em>name. </p><p>“If you’re asking if I’m relationship-material – then yes, I am. I’ve had many boyfriends, on paper and not” </p><p>“Great” he huffs out, “<em>Like Roger </em>” </p><p>You fight the urge to roll your eyes – so<em> maybe</em> you’d had a bump on the road of your love life. Okay, <em>maybe also a giant fucking boulder</em>. </p><p>“Technically, he was never my boyfriend. We only hooked up” </p><p>Feels almost ridiculous to say these words to him – not when you remember the last conversation you’d had over Elle and how he’d thought you were searching for her even years after. Maybe he just didn’t get the concept of it – one-night stands, hooking up, the whole shebang? Maybe he was just obliviously old-school.  </p><p>“What’s the difference?” he asks, “you’re still doing what you’d do with a partner” </p><p>“No” you stare at him now, confused that he didn’t know these things, and they were just the bare minimum. “There’s no emotional labor. No dedication or commitment, and they’re not a part of your life.” </p><p>He nods, and you lean back against your chair, stupidly proud over the fact you’d taught him something at least –<em> finally</em> getting the upper hand. </p><p>“Do you always do this?” He asks, catching you off guard, “Are you afraid of commitment?” </p><p>You stare at him dumbfounded – <em>well, that was uncalled for</em>. Was he feigning ignorance over the terminology just to get you to admit that?</p><p>“I <em>was</em> married.” you remind him, pitch of voice rising high in offense. </p><p>“For a year and a half” he rebuts. </p><p>“<em>Fuck you</em> -” you gasp, “I’m not scared of commitment. And let’s watch <em>you </em>have no commitment issues, when your mother dies young and your father is a criminal, wife beater and a literal serial killer” </p><p>Your sprout of anger does not faze him though, he just switches gears like you’re music in the background.  </p><p>“How long were you married, <em>Mister Commitment? </em>” you retort. Instead of throwing you a question in return, or diverting like always – he answers. </p><p>“More than 7” he flicks on the right turn signal. That’s still vague so you don’t know precisely the correct answer but it’s enough to prove his point. </p><p>“And yet we’re both at the same place, Agent.” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. He’s divorced and you’re... </p><p>“Call me Hotch” he blurts out, cutting your line of thought. </p><p>“What?”  </p><p>He gives you an earnest look. </p><p>“I’d rather you call me Hotch than Agent, when inside.” </p><p>That’s what his team calls him around work and in the house – and you’re too surprised to overthink about what it could mean. </p><p>“Are you sure you want me to call you by your nickname?” you ask, voice weak. </p><p>He doesn’t respond and as silence seeps back in around you – so do the memories of Nathan. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p><em> “Your little plan worked. I’m jealous” he says, standing as still as human possible, his signature grin wiped off his face as he looks at you, “You show up with Roger – </em>Roger<em>, of all people?” He shakes his head, his composure gone as he pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a deep sigh. </em> </p><p><em> “I’m not </em>planning <em>anything, Nate.” you stop on your tracks, and whip around to face him.  </em> </p><p><em> “You tell me you’re ready to date – be in a relationship</em> for real!<em> S</em><em>omething I didn’t want to or asked for. I told you I </em>  never <em>wanted one!” You poke his chest, “You knew how this was going to work out from the start. I told you I was in no shape to commit or pay attention to someone else when my life is this -” you raise your hands up, not minding the way people in the street look at you like you’re insane.  </em> </p><p><em> “I live in New York – you're in another state. And I go home and I say – </em>great<em>. Let's pack. I’m ready to pack </em>  for a  fucking  guy <em>  and uproot my entire life – just so you can go around and tell me you changed your fucking </em>mind<em>?” </em> </p><p><em> He shakes his head - “I told you my parents would cut me off. I didn’t tell you I changed my mind about us.” </em> </p><p><em> You nod, feeling like a fool – stupid and shameful that you’d even considered it. </em>Naïve<em>- you thought you’d get a happy ending after all </em> <em> , af </em> <em> ter your father, after starting over, only for </em>some man<em> to crush your heart too. </em>Great, wonderful life this was<em>– might as well just head to the Antarctic next and live isolated. At least then, the only person who can disappoint you is yourself. </em> </p><p><em> “That kind of sounds like the same to me – Nate.” </em> </p><p><em> You turn to leave, but he grabs your hand, pulling you gently to him. </em> </p><p><em> “You should come to Seattle either way. If not for me, then for your idea -” </em> </p><p><em> You glare at him.  </em> </p><p><em> “It’s a </em><em>brilliant</em><em> idea – you can help a lot of people and  </em> you should<em>.” </em> </p><p><em> But how can you do that – how can you work with him when he’s the one funding the project? His family, actually – the same one who’d found out through cheap tabloids that their precious son about to inherit their lifelong fortune was dating a nobody off the streets of New York. </em> </p><p><em> “If you can’t stand seeing my face then I will find you someone else – </em>anyone<em>. But don’t quit because of me” </em> </p><p><em> His words tug at your heart – and it’s stupid that he still has the ability to do that to you. The kindness of his words reaches past your rage, and you calm down enough to note the tears prickling at his eyes. </em> </p><p><em> “Roger wasn’t good in bed – </em>if it helps"<em> you blurt for no reason – panicking by the prospect of seeing him cry. And more so by that of having to not see him again </em><em>even </em><em>if you were to move to Seattle for the app. </em> </p><p><em> He watches you in surprise then laughs – loud and sudden. </em> </p><p><em> It fills you up too, making you crack a smile. </em> </p><p><em> “It helps” he says, laughing louder. It makes you flush red in embarrassment – over your lousy attempt to make him hurt as much as he’d hurt you. That you’d made an agreement with one of his friends just to make him jealous – and then that you’d considered him even an option if it proved to be unsuccessful. But  </em> everything<em> paled in comparison to </em>him<em>. </em> </p><p><em> He pulls you in then without warning, wrapping his arms around you into a comfortable cocoon, and he can finally breathe you in.  </em> </p><p><em> “I don’t give a shit about my family” he breathes over your lips, “I want </em> you<em>. They’ll just have to deal with it. We’ll make </em>them <em>deal with it.” </em> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You snap out of it – the nausea so bad it makes your head spin and your throat close up. There’s a rotten taste coating your tongue, thick and layered heavily, making you almost choke on your own spit. But you swallow it down, and then the only thing you can smell is dirt, mud, and animal carcass. </p><p>You focus all your attention on the man beside you as an antidote – because if you think about Nathan any longer you will end up puking in his car. </p><p>“You can do whatever” you say, cutting abruptly the silence, “We have to make them believe it.” </p><p>He glances at you with an eyebrow raised, not quite catching what you’re implying. </p><p>“<em>Physical contact </em>” you state plainly, waiting for him to protest or even laugh.  </p><p>The car slows down, and he breaks without looking ahead – his gaze fixed on yours. You allow yourself, for the first time since you’d gotten into the car, to really look at him. The dress code, as per that phone call had been cocktail attire.</p><p>You don’t know how or even when, but he’d gotten new clothes – an all dark-navy look: dark navy suit, button-down and slacks; modern and unconventional for him. And the necktie he has on appears a deeper silvery-blue when it catches the light. It suits him well – that's the only thing you can think of with certain clarity. </p><p>He doesn’t speak – and you turn to his hands gripping the steering wheel. If you can focus on his right hand – the same one with which he’d drawn lazy patterns over your hipbone – you can still feel the ghost of his burning touch. And you rely solely on that feeling as a way to combat the memories of Nathan’s touch. </p><p>“You’d be comfortable with that?” he asks, voice deep and seeming to resonate in the small space around you. </p><p>“Yes – there’s <em>no</em> limit” you admit, blatantly staring at his knuckles. The reason for thinking about his hands is out of reach now as your mind draws up other scenarios, other possibilities, and you ache to feel the burn of his touch everywhere else. You shake your head – aware of where your thoughts have led you to.  </p><p>“It’s for the case” you say aloud, reminding yourself. </p><p>“Right” he lets out, breathing in deeply. “For the case.” He repeats as if it’s a chant. </p><p>“And we’ve been dating recently” you say, “as a background story. It’s the only thing that would explain it all -” </p><p>- not knowing how to be around each other, a bit awkward in public, and the stealing of glances you’d have to do – in order to check on one another if you were to be separated across a room. </p><p>“Okay” he says, but his mind seems to be somewhere else too.  </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>With that promise you enter the venue – a small luxurious hotel reception area filled with people dressed like you. Hotch’s suit jacket is draped over your bare shoulders, his arm around you, keeping you pressed to his chest. Even as you follow the flow of people into a bigger space – his hand never leaves your hip. And it works – Nathan’s ghost disappears off your mind completely.  </p><p>A woman walks around, dressed in the uniform of the hotel staff, urging people to pass by the reception desk. You follow the queue that forms towards it, feeling Hotch beside you studying the place. </p><p>“Do you see anyone you recognize?” he whispers in your ear, his hand over you squeezing briefly your hip. </p><p>His smell and his touch cloud your mind – but you manage an answer. </p><p>“No. Not at all” </p><p>He keeps his guard up, as it's finally your turn at the reception desk. </p><p>“Good evening Madame Anderson” the woman says with a smile. The surname makes you shudder, and you plant your hand over Hotch’s still on your waist.  </p><p>“Good evening” you reply, “we were invited-“ </p><p>She pushes an envelope your way. </p><p>“Please follow directions“ </p><p>You take the envelope and open it up – there’s a small letter and a key tucked inside. You take the letter first, holding it up so even Hotch can read it. </p><p><em> Sorry for the inconvenience – there will be a delay tonight.  </em> </p><p><em> Please find the key to a luxurious room on our ground floor as our sincerest apology. All expenses paid. </em> </p><p>A delay? How long is that even going to last? The woman sees you unmoving and she motions to the doors leading to the hotel’s restaurant and bar. </p><p>“If you prefer, everyone else is grabbing a drink at the bar. On the house, of course.” </p><p>“Thanks” you nod, and step away from her desk. You look at Hotch who moves before you, and focuses his entire attention to the envelope again – even to the room key, examining them in his hands.  </p><p>“Let’s check this room” he says, and you trail behind – following him as he leads the way down the hall.  </p><p>Single digit numbers pass by you fast, until he’s at the end of the corridor - to number 24. He unlocks the door, then pushes it open, walking in.  </p><p>The room is luxurious alright – a double-bed in the middle, decorated and adorned with a veil atop like the bed of a king. The antique furniture spread around – armoire, storage chest, a desk with a chair, and even a large sitting area with a sofa and two couches - all adorned with streaks of gold around. There’s another door in the room, open to reveal a bathroom on the other side. </p><p>Hotch was expecting something else because he lets out a frustrated sigh.  </p><p>“So,<em> an actual </em>delay ” </p><p>You shrug. </p><p>- </p><p>It’s how you end up in the hotel’s bar, his suit jacket draped on the back of his chair – a glass of martini for you and whiskey for him. </p><p>Both of you stare at the people around – the horse racetrack must have brought a lot of newcomers today, because everyone is a stranger to you.  </p><p>A good 30 minutes are passed like that and in silence, but it’s not the one that makes you think of Nathan. Not when Hotch is still so close to you – his arm clad in a button-down brushing against your naked one. It’s almost comforting that he’s become the cure to Nathan. After more time you pass to the couches against a wall of the bar, both seated a good distance apart.  </p><p>You look at him checking his watch again in frustration. Maybe his patience is thinning – and rightfully so, and you would mind it too – but it’s your second martini and you seem to forget where you even are at this point. </p><p>What’s begun to irk you though is his resolve to remain quiet – the people around you seem to not mind waiting because they talk to one another. Unlike you two. He stands then, taking his empty glass of whiskey with him and you’re grateful.  </p><p>There was no wire tonight – they'd deemed it too risky since none of you knew the location or how many people would be around. So, you’re counting only on Hotch’s testimony and whatever Penelope had given him in order to ping your location in case something happens.  </p><p>You turn your attention to the people around you – in the 1 hour that has passed, they seem to be less. Maybe they’ve left or they’re using the privacy of their rooms to unwind. Your attention is caught by a blonde man, silver suit like the ones Roger used to wear. You stand up, but he’s gone just as fast. Your eyes peruse the area – from the high tables by the large windows overlooking a pool outside, to the one in an area dimly lit, stopping then to the counter of the bar – spotting Hotch. </p><p>Although you’d been the one to want him away – you find you don’t really mean it now. Not when you see the way women flock to him as soon as they see him alone. They’re quick to smile, easy to open up and blossom – lighter, and less-complicated than you.  </p><p>You shake your head, trying for focus on the task at hand - at finding Roger.  </p><p>Yet your eyes are glued on Hotch – the way a woman’s hand brushes his shoulder first then retraces the length of his forearm before she turns to face him. Her face is visible to you even from this far – she’s blonde, beautiful and her yellow dress makes her shine like gold.</p><p>He smiles at her too – easy and non-committal, like he does it in the regular and he has no worry in the world apart from entertaining the beautiful woman in front of him. You watch him lean forward and say something to her – and you take a sharp breath, jealousy coating your tongue like saliva. </p><p> “I told you we’d see each other more often” </p><p>You whip around – Roger stands before you in that same silver suit, grinning at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, forgetting that you’d questioned him outside the arena or even roughed him up. </p><p>“You fucking liar” you spit out, voice low so only he can hear. </p><p>The bastard <em>chuckles</em>.  </p><p>“Sorry, darling. I had to – if you knew I’d attend, would you have even been here now?” </p><p>It’s a good point –and<em> true</em>. He looks over your shoulder, spotting Hotch.  </p><p>“Your boyfriend is quick at befriending blondes” he snickers.  </p><p>You try not to let his words get to you but you find it impossible.  </p><p>“Seems like you always like the unavailable ones.” </p><p>“No, Roger” you reply, “I just like anyone who’s not you” </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch laughs again at whatever the woman in front of him had just told him, in hopes she will let him go more easily once he gets his drink. She narrows the distance again and he feels the need to say something – sensing her reproach will not end otherwise. </p><p>“Thank you” he says, “you’re too kind. But I have to return to my girlfriend.” </p><p>That seems to make her stop and take a step back – and he’s grateful that they’d had that talk on the car. The bartender leaves the whiskey in front of him, and he takes a sip to forget the <em>entire  </em>discussion in the car and your words – your willingness to let him touch you with no reservation.  </p><p>It had caused a ripple inside his gut – and even though he still refrained, he found himself reaching for you with no actual excuse. You’d confirmed a few times that none of the people around you both was familiar – and yet he kept an arm around your waist, your body pressed close to his. He’s helpless, gravitating to your exposed skin through an unstoppable pull.  </p><p>He’s reduced to<em> want</em> – and he is grateful for the separation of the new seating arrangement.</p><p>It worked for a good while – you were both quiet and solemnly so. </p><p>But you’d started rubbing the nape of your neck with a hand – small exhales and soft sounds involuntarily escaping your throat as you massaged the tensed skin. He’d eyed the dress hugging your figure – black silk hanging off your shoulders by the world’s thinnest straps (he’d thought of the mechanics of them too, for a stupid amount of time), a slit cutting the length of your dress from your thigh to your ankles. And his gaze moved without control – fixed on you whenever your leg peeked out when walking or shifting in your seat.  </p><p>Once he swallows the bitter liquid, he turns instinctively to look at you again. He can’t help it that the image of you in that dress is seared in his brain. </p><p>Yet you’re not on your seat – you’re standing, talking to that man from the racetracks – <em>Roger. </em>  </p><p>A wave of <em>something, </em>violent and bitter rushes to his stomach, and now he knows what it is even though he has no way to combat it. He’d been jealous with Haley – it was normal for every relationship, but the one he felt when men looked at her back in college or in high school was childish, and quick to pass and digest.</p><p>The one he feels now makes him get tunnel vision – zeroing in on the hands clasping Roger’s tie, pulling him to you to whisper something in his ear – his hand planted gently over your hip.  </p><p>And he finds himself walking towards you – the grip on the glass of whiskey painting his knuckles white.  </p><p>Roger is chuckling about something, but his eyes – dark and dilated as he regards you, do not seem to land on Hotch once. Even as he’s as close to you as he can get, clearing his throat once more. It’s like the man is hypnotized, not caring about anyone else in the world and Hotch regrets not punching him<em> once</em> – just <em>one time </em> while questioning him in the hood of his car. </p><p>You turn though, eyes awash with relief and happiness when you note Hotch close by. That look awakens something primal inside him – but he keeps it at bay.  </p><p>This time, you’re the one reaching out for him, snaking an arm around his back, dragging him close, looking up at him with doe eyes. He reads the signal - the need to make Roger leave. He bends down as you reach up, brushing your lips with his briefly - a small peck.  </p><p><em> It’s for the case </em>– Hotch hears your words from the car, replaying loud and clear in his brain. But his eyes squeeze shut, relishing in your warm breath over his lips.  </p><p>It’s barely a kiss – he thinks as you land back on your feet, but he's breathless. It takes everything in him not reach down again, just so he can savor the softness and warmth of your lips, and inhale the intensity of your perfume – like almonds and melted honey on his tongue.  </p><p>You let out a laugh, letting go of him immediately once you note Roger's left.</p><p>“Well, that worked” you mutter, picking up the martini and taking a large sip – as if to wash off the remains of the kiss from your mouth.</p><p>Hotch does the same with his drink.  </p><p>“Madame Anderson” a male voice says behind you both, making you turn. </p><p>A man older than Hotch, tall and dressed in a grey suit, salt and pepper hair and brown eyes, takes your hand, planting a kiss over your knuckles as he bows down.  </p><p>Hotch notices the way your face flushes a deep shade of pink, and let out a laugh at the gesture.</p><p>“It’s a pleasure to see you again” the man says, glancing at Hotch too, before focusing on you. “We have missed you in the hunting grounds -” </p><p><em> Hunting? </em> </p><p>“And our latest competitions have yielded some very weak results. The recent additions in our club have been promising but not as successful as you. We hope to have you back one day.” he leans forward, keeping a polite distance, as if whispering a secret “We miss our best shooter”  </p><p>Hotch looks at you then at the man – the details of the case etched into his brain. You’re a good shot – that’s what this man is confirming. And they’ve been searching high and low for a serial killer who was efficient and clean, with a single bullet to the back of their victims.</p><p>Someone who was agile with a knife and a good shot – and you’re<em> both</em> those things. </p><p>He has to restrict his perilous line of thinking before it spirals into something else – he’d had you before him all these days. In the plane as well. You’re not the unsub – he knows this logically. And yet he can’t explain why he’s angry at the new revelation.  </p><p>You’d kept it from him –<em> that's it</em>. Hotch watches you shake the man’s hand again, saying your goodbyes and you sit back down on the couches. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>“Another<em> non </em>-boyfriend?” He asks, watching the man join another table. Hotch takes a sip of his whiskey, and when he puts the glass down over the table it’s harsher – the noise of glass slamming into glass louder.  </p><p>You glower at him. </p><p>“No” you reply, “I haven’t <em>fucked</em> every man who approaches me, you know” </p><p>He winces at your words.  </p><p>“You have questionable taste in men” </p><p>You catch that same blonde he’d talked with when he was refilling his drink again. This time when she passes by she throws a look over her shoulder at Hotch.  </p><p>“You have questionable taste <em>in blondes.</em>” </p><p>He huffs out, refusing to acknowledge your comment. Why is he so mad all of the sudden? His scowl is deeper on his face, and whenever he drinks, he grimaces as if the whiskey tastes bad. </p><p>Instead of asking why though, the part of you that is deeply offended by his remarks leads you to do the opposite – and contribute more to his anger. </p><p>You bend down over the space between you both and whisper: </p><p>“Did you ever sleep with someone else apart from your wife?” </p><p>His eyes snap to you – peering at you over the glass. </p><p>“Did you ever have a scandalous one-night stand – with a female police officer at another city, perhaps? Or a fellow agent? Or even –“ you don’t care how low your dress is hanging now, not when you see that familiar angry vein pop up on his neck.</p><p>It had been so easy to push his buttons when talking about his wife or family – but now he seems easily pressed. And that excites you more than whatever the owner of the shooting range had said.  </p><p>“- someone you interrogated? A <em>suspect</em>?” </p><p>He doesn’t say a word, but the rise of his chest and shoulders as he breathes tells you enough –  </p><p>“Did you ever hook up in college?” </p><p>You lean back on your chair, crossing your legs, the cut of the dress revealing the entirety of your leg from your thigh to your heel. </p><p>“Of course not” you huff out. He’s probably a prude – it’s why he’d been so judgmental before with Roger and then now. Who does he think he is – to judge your choices? </p><p>You point shamelessly to the blonde a few tables away from yours –  </p><p>“If you asked, she’d drop everything.” </p><p>He leans forward, dropping the glass over the low table, a bit more carelessly than before and puts a hand to his forehead, rubbing the frowning lines.  </p><p>“I’ll hand you all my winnings at the racetrack this morning if she says no. And if it’s a yes, you get to stop breathing down my neck and judging my <em>fucking life</em>. What do you say?” </p><p>Hotch looks up, dropping his hands over his knees. He looks frustrated – fidgeting like never before and unlike himself. </p><p>“She’d probably be thrilled to have sex with you in the bathroom too. Does that excite you, <em>Agent</em>?” </p><p>He stands up abruptly, bending down over you, pressing a hand on the wall behind you – his stretched arm at your left almost brushing your cheek. He corners you to the couch as he leans down to whisper – warm breath over your ear drawing out a hot shiver through your spine. </p><p>“Does calling me Agent <em>turn you on</em>?” </p><p>His words go straight to the heat between your legs, and you stare at him - mouth hanging open. Your brain short-circuits, unable to think of quick responses or something witty to do say. He looks down at your body – still on that same posture – taking in the red flush appearing over your chest and neck. </p><p>“Would you let me <em>have </em><em>you</em> in the bathroom if <em>I were to ask </em>?” </p><p>You swallow nothing – not having predicted him to match your energy or be bolder than you. All of your assumptions over him are out the window – that he’s boring, conventional, a one-track mind – and you’re left with nothing. The man standing over you, making you squirm and<em> hot </em>so easily, with just the sound of his voice – is someone else entirely. </p><p>“I don’t <em>care </em>about your personal life” </p><p>His lips graze your earlobe and you inhale sharply. It’s because you’d been locked away and it had been long without a man's touch – that’s what you tell yourself and why you’re so...<em> so </em> – </p><p>He stands up, shooting you a smug look before leaving. </p><p>You grab his drink, yours empty and useless – chucking it down on one go. For the nerves and as liquid courage – for the way your mind seems to not work when around him. </p><p>You refuse to linger here, waiting around to be called for whatever this <em>fucking Clover </em>even is. So, you take your handbag, slinging it across your shoulder and walking out the hall back into the small room they’d given you the keys for. You throw the bag somewhere in the corner of the room – angry at yourself and for the fact his words still bounce around in your brain.</p><p>Because you <em>would have </em>  – you would have had sex with him in that<em> fucking bathroom</em>.  </p><p>You realize it now why he’s so good at clearing up your head of Nathan – it’s because he doesn’t allow for anyone else to roam around. He’s stubborn and frustrating and the most intense man you’ve ever met –  </p><p>The door behind you draws open and you swirl around. Hotch stands before you, frown on his face and mad about something – </p><p>“You left?” he asks, voice loud, “Do I need to remind you why we are here?” </p><p><em> The case</em>, then. He narrows the distance in a second. </p><p>“I don’t care if this too hard for you – or if you can’t bear the prospect of being around Nathan’s friends, but you have to do it. So, pull it together” </p><p>Yet his eyes don’t linger anywhere else but on your mouth. And your mind is stuck on nothing else but replaying the feeling of his lips on yours from that tiny kiss - like a broken tape recorder. </p><p>“Do it-” you order, “Show me you don’t care – <em>kiss me</em>” </p><p>Your grab his necktie, twisting it around your right hand like a leash. His eyes go wide, barely registering your demands. </p><p>“Don’t...” he warns, leaning his weight back. </p><p>“Kiss me” you moan, frustrated fingers itching for more of him – the desire in you burning like a forest fire.  </p><p>He stills, his chest rising and falling, his resolve unyielding even with the alcohol. Yours had leapt off somewhere far away, together with your sanity, as soon as he’d joined you in the room. </p><p>You pull yourself up so your lips graze his, light and barely even there – and then suddenly, without warning he curls forward, crashing your lips against his, heat rising from your stomach to your chest. <em>And he’s kissing you back </em>  with more urgency. You sense the intensity of his anger, now channeled and transforming into passion.<em> And he's kissing you back </em>– the realization that he’d be like <em>this, like you,</em> leaving you as ruined as a train wreck.  </p><p>The hesitation that had marked his features is gone – and he lets out a sound from the back of his throat, primal and deep, an arm circling you, pulling you firmly against him, sealing any distance between the two of you. His free hand dives into your hair, grabbing the nape of your neck, fingers tugging at your locks – causing whimpers and moans to escape your mouth. You cling to him as if he’s the only solid thing in the world – his lips, soft and warm, sending shivers of pleasure through your spine, your mouth parting open at the gentle prodding of his tongue.  </p><p>He tastes like whiskey – bitter and strong, and he smells of cologne – sharp like coffee grounds and sweet like ripe tangerine. It’s addictive – your grip on his tie is steady, guiding his movements and urgency in order to match yours. The bad acoustics of the room cause your noises to echo, heightening all of your senses – nothing on your mind but him. You must pull him too hard, because you both barrel further into the room, no awareness or care for the furniture around you. The back of your knees hits a piece of wood and you let out a whimper of pain onto his mouth. A flash of worry surges him, parting away – but he doesn’t let you out of his hold. His breathing continues loud and deep – and yours is ragged. You look wildly at each other for a moment, before he turns to the object behind you and scoffs. </p><p>“Storage chest” he explains, voice husky.</p><p>He searches your face for something – regret, disappointment, even uncertainty. But there’s none of it. If anything – you're worse than before, even more desperate. And you almost don’t need to say it – not when he seems to read the intention on your eyes with ease. You tug at his tie, doing the same motions as you’d done when you’d taken it off this morning – your movements less careful and tidy.</p><p>This time, <em>you </em>  yank it off, throwing it to the ground behind him, and you unbutton his collar, hands trailing from his neck to his collarbones to the expanse of his broad shoulders. All the while, his hands move downwards to rest over your hips. He waits for your directions – or for a sliver of hesitation. But you don’t think you’ve ever been more ready and willing in your life, more <em>needy</em> than now. </p><p>You lean forward, brushing your lips on the side of his neck, under the collar you’d unbuttoned – in that same spot where the smell of him is deeper – engulfing your senses. A groan escapes him – shooting electricity along your spine. You catch his earlobe with your lips, pulling it gently with your teeth– his grip on your hips harsher. </p><p>“Fuck me, <em>Agent </em>” </p><p>When you kiss him again, your lips meet his teeth as he smiles – glad over the revelation that he’d been right over his last statement. Unknowingly, somewhere along the line – <em>agent </em> had turned into a word of reverence. He pulls apart again, hands over your hips directing you away from his body and over the bed instead, sitting you down. Then his hands leave you, his small smirk turning devilish as he starts unbuttoning slowly his shirt, then the wrists of his sleeves. He does everything by keeping his eyes on you, and taking his time – noting every sign of frustration on your face. </p><p>“<em>Fuck you </em>” you breathe out, annoyed at the fact he seems to relish with having all control “you’re enjoying this too much” </p><p>When all the buttons are undone, you spot the tank top below. </p><p>“If they call.” He says, explaining the carefulness with which he takes off his clothes, voice confident and as assured as the one he uses in the job – and <em>fuck </em>is that effective.</p><p>And <em>of course, </em>he’s still thinking about the case, while you’re a mess – heart pounding so loud you hear it in your ears, and feel it throb on your neck, the heat at the end of your belly increasing even though he’s done nothing else – <em>touched</em> nowhere else.  </p><p>And he seems to be taking all the time in the world when you don’t have it – not when you fear his mind will snap back to reality. Or that they will call you – parting you both.  </p><p>He yanks off his shirt, placing it gently over the chest you’d bumped into – his hands suddenly over the cusp of your knees, the heat of his palms over your cold skin burning you. He kneels before you slowly and surely like a knight giving up the fight. </p><p>Your breathing is loud and deep, your legs tightly squeezed together just from seeing him like this before you – not the mountain of a man and epitome of control as he always is – but so easily yielding his power.  </p><p>“Tell me –“ he starts, his eyes trailing your face from your cheeks to your jawline, moving downwards to the collarbones and the valley between your breasts – all exposed through your dress. Even kneeled he is tall – not much height difference from your figure seated on the low bed. His palms move upwards, tracing your thighs over the dress – seemingly chaste and controlled. </p><p>“-what do you want?” he drawls. “I want to hear you say it again.” </p><p>The words fall from your mouth with no hesitation. </p><p>“I want you to<em> f</em><em>uck me </em>” you say slow and <em>once</em> – his hands brushing downwards to your knees again.  </p><p>“Fuck me” you repeat again, like a chant – more confident than before, voice shaky as his fingers dive underneath the hem of your dress, rolling the silk over your skin, uncovering you slowly. </p><p>“<em>Fuck </em><em>me </em>-“ the words erupt from your throat as a moan into his mouth as he kisses you again quick and briefly, his warm fingers gripping your thighs harshly, finding the waistband of your undergarment, fingers resting at the sides, and dragging you to him with force. It lights up your nerve endings at once, back arching under his ministrations. </p><p>When you say the words again, they sound like a plead finally exposing the emotions hidden within them. Hotch lunges forward, pulling himself up, his grip parting your legs open – your apparent desire rendering him breathless – and you meet him halfway, crushing his lips with yours. </p><p>All the build-up of his deliberately slow movements is exquisite – making your stomach flutter. You run your hands everywhere you’d wanted to touch before – over his chest and stomach, his toned body flexing and moving underneath your touch – until you lurch forward, diving your fingers into his hair. His midnight locks are soft and silky – unlike any other part of him. Fingertips scraping against his scalp methodically, as you kiss with no regards for air or pain. </p><p>He tugs at the black garment under your dress and you hop off the bed for a second - he yanks it off in one quick movement, the same way he’d done with his necktie this morning.  </p><p>He rips away from your mouth – his lips kiss-swollen and maroon red; his pupils blown out, and his hair disheveled – and he looks more handsome and irresistible than never. Yet when you lean over to kiss him again he shakes his head. </p><p>One hand of his is clutched tightly over your knee and –  </p><p>He raises the other – and you watch speechless, mouth agape, his middle and ring finger pressed together, his mouth open – his tongue darting out to lick obscenely around them. That simple act makes you let out a small moan – brain fuzzy and your entire body in overheat.  </p><p>“Scream for me<em>” </em> he orders, voice sickly sweet and sharp. </p><p>But before you can respond or even nod – his fingers <em>drive</em> into you with no other warning, diving to where you need him most.  </p><p>A loud moan is ripped from your throat - back arching painfully, head falling backwards as your fingers bite into his shoulders for support.  </p><p>And he moves again – this time your hips meeting him halfway with that same force that he plunges into you. He voices appraisals, sweet nothings and compliments that you barely register but that push you further off the cliff. </p><p>You look down as you pant – fast and unruly – shivers of pleasure travelling everywhere on your skin. He’s focused with a quiet determination, watching <em>you </em>- and he looks up at once meeting your eyes. A loud grunt escapes him when your grip on his shoulders draws blood –  </p><p>It makes you look up again, loud whimpers and moans falling from your lips as your back-and-forth together is relentless, ripples of pleasure riding through your body. </p><p>His free hand that was securely latched on your knee to keep your legs open, travels up – cupping your chin, directing your eyes back to him, silently telling you to keep your gaze fixed on his. You obey, mesmerized by the flush of his face, the sweat prickling his temple – burning you with the desire to kiss him again. </p><p>“<em>Good girl”  </em>he exhales, breathlessly.</p><p>His words make you crash – high and fast, mind <em>entirely </em>blanking. And he rides you through it, chasing you down from your high.  </p><p>The whimper that leaves your mouth is loud and sinful as you watch him again – his mouth sucking on those same fingers, cleaning them off. </p><p>You want to say something more – regain some kind of composure, <em>at least </em>through your words. Yet you're left with nothing as he stands up slowly. But your hands find his belt – taking it off him with expert fingers, and then you tug at the hem of his tank top, bundling it up over his chest. Where your arms don’t reach, his do. He takes off his tank top throwing it carelessly behind him –  </p><p>A loud knock on the door echoes behind you. It makes you halt everything. He stares at the door, then at you –  </p><p>A small piece of paper slides underneath your door. You want to plead again – beg him to not leave, because if he does - <em>this </em>will end here. </p><p>Yet he takes a step back, cold air seeping into your sweaty skin at once at the sudden distancing. </p><p>You watch as he walks to the door – bending down to pick up the paper. He reads it and looks up to you. </p><p>“We’re on in 10 minutes” he says aloud, voice serious – the smallest remembrance of lust still lingering in his tone, making it deeper than normal. </p><p>You part your mouth to say something as he walks back to you – <em>anything</em>.</p><p>That <em>this </em>was good, it was <em>perfect </em>– and you’re insanely mad for being interrupted now; and that <em>he’s</em>... that you find him... </p><p>That you – <em>what</em>? Find him unnervingly attractive? He <em>must</em> know that – otherwise you wouldn’t have been here, mere seconds from having sex with him. Yet the realization dawns on you like a bucket of cold water thrown over your head. It cools the entire room – dampening the mood immediately. He can’t meet your eyes. He only chucks the piece of paper over the end of the bed, plucking his clothes around the room wordlessly and heading to the bathroom. The door slams shut behind him.  </p><p><em> Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.  </em> </p><p>You stand abruptly – he’s an <em>agent</em>. Not just any other agent – but someone who is adamant in finding your husband’s murderer. <em>Someone </em>who believes <em>it’s you. </em> </p><p>You pick up the paper – reading those same words he’d read. </p><p><em> Conference room</em><em>nr</em><em>.5 in 10 minutes. </em> -<em>Clover</em></p><p>And you start pacing, turning to the mirror and the handbag to try to fix your appearance.  </p><p>You stop in front of it. You almost don’t recognize yourself – your face, neck and chest are almost the same color of your hair, flushed a deep red. And the sweat shining over your skin makes it obvious what kind of activity you two had partaken in. </p><p>You wipe your neck, chest, and shoulders with a towel you find over the armoire, then do the same with your thighs and legs. You’re barely even functioning properly, panicked and pacing back and forth – and it doesn’t last long, because his ministrations have left you spaghetti-limbed. So, you plant yourself over the storage chest – painfully conscious not to sit in the bed where he’d ripped an orgasm out of you.  </p><p>It takes a while for him to get out of the bathroom – but none of you speak over the reason why, both aware. Yet his hair is fixed, and he doesn’t bother with the tie, leaving the collar open. He simply puts on his jacket, opening the door for you to walk out first. His demeanor and serious face grant him back that look of professionalism as an agent that he always carries.  </p><p>You aim to do the same – appear as unaffected as he is, but it’s impossible. It takes everything in you to continue walking with purpose beside him, as you both search for the room they’d indicated. When you do, he goes in first, and you 're quickly behind. </p><p>Every emotion you’d felt is sucked out of you – as you watch the people in the room.  </p><p>All of Nathan’s friends, the man from before, Roger, even a few girls he’d told you he’d dated – they all turn to look at you. But your eyes linger on the woman standing in front of you – white hair and wearing a pink suit, smile chilling to the bone. </p><p>“Honey –“ her voice is high pitched, deceivingly affectionate. </p><p>The woman who’d been openly against your relationship with Nathan, showing up at your work – first by shoving checks at your face as a bargain to stop dating him. Then, by threatening you – sending strange men at your work at the condo only to scare you into submission. It didn’t end even as you got married – even after seemingly accepting you and funding your project. She did so only because you were about to bring their name more money – as a percentage for their investment.  </p><p> She and her family had been the reason why you’d accepted the allegations and headed to prison for 3 months. Because nobody else in the world scared you more than her – </p><p>“Lucille Anderson” she introduces herself to Hotch, shaking his hand. </p><p>“Thank you for accompanying my daughter-in-law” </p><p>You gulp, steeling your face –  </p><p><em> Nathan’s mother.  </em> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(yes this was straight up filthy bcs yolo ✌️ and yes i want everything to be messy and so it shall be) 😈</p><p>thnx for reading!!!! and for sticking thru w/ this story!  💕 💕<br/>as always: lemme know what you think!!! and pls even criticism i would appreciate - it would help me with writing this</p><p>Just fyi - im changing the rating to M for the future chapters as well - i hope y'all ya kno... liked reading this. bcs i did go thru an existential crisis for real lmao.</p><p>I feel the need to rehash that I cannot take it upon myself to write smut because English is not my native language and I don't want to subject you guys to the hellscape that that would inevitably turn into.<br/>but!!!!!! i hope you still got to enjoy this! (and that it was kinda worth the wait)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Once More to See You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After the night before - a new discovery takes place.<br/>This time on the investigation the BAU are conducting.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Are y'all ok after the last chapter? 👀</p><p>I shouldn't be here and yet - 😔✌️</p><p>A short lil filler chapter bcs we are Back to Denial<br/>(also im in a hurry so close an eye pls for any grammatical errors u may catch or any other weird stuff pls and thnx)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the rear-view mirror, with the light of the setting sun reflecting over his black sunglasses and casting a glow upon his face and neck – you feel the taste of him bubble up inside you again.  </p><p>
  <em> His soft dark hair under your hands. The roughness of his hands, the callouses of his fingers as he gripped your thighs and pulled you to him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> The whiskey on his mouth coating your tongue. </em>
</p><p><em>The smell of his cologne under his jawline as you kissed him, even the fresh evening air after you’d left that hotel last night. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Everything has caused a storm to form inside you that has not stopped building up since he’d dropped you off at your house that night. </p><p>Because Hotch had left – no word or acknowledgement of what happened in the hotel room, only to head back to the police department where the others were. It’s where they’d been for the entirety of the night, and the rest of today. And you hadn’t mentioned it either, merely because you were still processing the first <em>Clover</em> meeting. </p><p>You hadn’t slept either – like the rest of them.  </p><p>But you can note from their seriousness that they have discovered something new on their current investigation.  </p><p>Hence, Hotch and Agent Rossi coming to pick you up in order to drive you back to the police department. They’re both dead quiet in the front, and you switch from looking out the window to watching Hotch in the rear-view mirror. You don’t know if he catches you, or if he does the same, the sunglasses over his eyes makes it hard to notice, but you don’t care much. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p><b> <em> Last night: </em> </b> </p><p>Hotch looks from the woman in front of him to you – and it would be remiss of him to not notice the split-second panic crossing your features before they are expertly hidden behind an invisible veil as the woman comes closer. </p><p>She urges you both to sit, and you do. She is weary of Hotch – eyes lingering on him more than on you. Yet Roger speaks, and leans in to whisper something to Lucille. She nods slowly and he wonders if the man tells him about the time in the parking lot. Either way – it seems to be good enough for her to not bring up in front of the others. There’s about 20 people in the room, you two excluded. The woman gets right to it: </p><p>“First of all, you are all here because of your contributions to the field of computing technology-” she looks towards a few girls and young men. “-and because we are doing something that will revolutionize the way we use data – and we would appreciate your investment.”  </p><p>She turns to the man you’d greeted, Roger, and the remaining others – stopping then to you. </p><p>“Clover is a company first funded by my husband – god rest his soul – and I – when we were starting our business. It is an internet infrastructure company that assists websites with content delivery and cybersecurity. Clover’s services for blocking automated DDoS attacks will be particularly crucial to the viability of any website.” </p><p>Hotch can almost see the wheels turning in your head – processing her statements and sensing the questions popping up at her words.  </p><p>“You are here because we want to keep it under wraps until it hits the market – a pure necessity before our competitors know.” </p><p>The rest of the talk is a long presentation dumbed down so people like you and Hotch and many others can understand the impact – the investment they need, and the profit it would amass for the goals they have about Clover.  </p><p>The audience is excited and giddy for being involved – yet you and Hotch have the same facial expressions – disbelief, mistrust and wariness – studying the implications of her words and Clover.  </p><p>When it ends, an hour and something later, you and Hotch stand up, both waiting for Lucille to notice. He tries not to be overbearing, not like the <em>bodyguard  </em>he was acting as in the racetracks. But he sees the clasping of your hands together in that same manner he’d caught while in the car this morning. It’s the tinniest thing, because you still hold your head high, posture straight and self-confident – not giving the woman any satisfaction that you’re tense or scared.  </p><p>She finally joins you two, and Hotch tries to give you the semblance of privacy, but his hand remains on the small of your back. He doesn’t know why he does it – as a signal to you that he’s there if needed, or an instinct of his to reassure himself you’re safe, or it’s simply his own selfish desire to not break physical contact. Not after he’s gotten a taste of it. </p><p>“I’m glad you could join us” Lucille says, stopping before you. “Congratulations on the win today.” </p><p>“I’m glad you still want my money” you retort, voice cold and unemotional. “At least you’re constant, Lucille. I can rely on that.” </p><p>The woman scoffs, glancing at Hotch behind you, looking him up and down with severity.  </p><p>“You were quick to move on – despite the many childish fights to stay together with my son” </p><p>That draws a chuckle out of you that echoes in the room – it's nothing like the genuine laughs Hotch has come to recognize. This one is a play-act. </p><p>“Nathan wasn’t involved in this, was he?” </p><p>The woman flinches at the mention of his son – and Hotch thinks, also on the fact you’d hit the jackpot with that guess. </p><p>“The phone call said I was the only Anderson, so I take it to mean the only one who was connected to your <em>only</em> son. Because you never would have called me an Anderson – not voluntarily” </p><p>The woman smirks.  </p><p>“That’s because you’re <em>not</em> an Anderson” </p><p>You nod, “And yet, I still bear your family name” </p><p>Hotch senses that the palpable tension between you and her spans beyond the articles and the news of the Anderson family depicting you as the murderer.  </p><p>“Thanks for the invitation but I have no desire to invest” you say, and Hotch follows suit as you make your way out the door. </p><p>The walk to the parking lot is quiet, and it continues when you both make it inside the car.  </p><p>He’s not doing his job. Not when he leans over opening the door for you before getting in. Not when he opens the windows of the car, recognizing your need for fresh air so you don’t get jumbled up in your own thoughts. Or even when seeing you begin to shiver – he takes the suit jacket he’d taken off before turning the ignition on, and hands it over to you wordlessly. You cover your lap and knees, expression somber as you look out the window once you depart. </p><p>Hotch wants to speak, to say something<em> meaningful</em><em>, </em>but he can’t come up with anything. He’s just painfully aware of how much he’s <em>fucked up,</em> even though he does not regret it.</p><p>His phone rings, interrupting the turmoil happening inside his mind. He picks up – Dave’s voice the first to yell over the speaker. </p><p>“There’s been another body” he says in a flurry, “He’s devolving because everything was done in a rush. Garcia says she found footage of the last victim before he was killed.” </p><p>“Okay”, Hotch answers, his brain automatically getting rid of any other thought but the case. “I’ll be there in 20” </p><p>When he makes it the police department everything is a mess – he’d sent orders in the drive here and he sees Dave first as he makes it to the conference room.  </p><p>His friend gives him a once over – which Hotch dutifully ignores as he updates him on the latest news. </p><p>The recent victim is a man slightly younger than the others, found stabbed and shot in a park. He’s gotten everything in common with the others apart from his age and the location. What is the most ground-breaking for their investigation though is that Garcia has managed to find footage of the man a few hours before. They are back again in the conference room – curtains drawn but windows open to air out the humidity and high temperature. The coffee cups on the table between them are already stacked – and Hotch thinks they haven’t moved since you both left for the cocktail party. </p><p>“It’s the gentlemen’s club” Morgan says, hands on his hips and pointing at the screen. </p><p>“Garcia did you vet the members according to the profile we established?” Hotch asks. </p><p>“Yes, sir – there’s nobody 30-40 years old with a violent childhood or history of domestic abuse” </p><p><em> Roger </em>probably has one – he knows now from your history with the man that he was married, and has an aggressive character. Then again, he was there with you this evening. </p><p>“Even if they did get sued or otherwise –“ Prentiss says next to the board, standing beside Reid, “-these men probably settle to not have any offenses on the record.” </p><p>Hotch nods –  </p><p>“If only this would be as easy as the scorned wife from New York” Dave drawls sarcastically before taking a sip of his coffee. </p><p>Reid then turns to them – eyes darting from the photos of the previous victims to the printed lists with the members of Brook’s stacked over the table. </p><p>“What if it’s a female unsub?” </p><p>Hotch looks at him wide-eyed. </p><p>“We just assumed these murders are sexual in nature because of the stab wounds – but they’re not the primary cause of death.” </p><p>“It would explain why the bodies are rolled out of the car and not dragged somewhere neat or more composed” Prentiss says, “She’d lack the physical prowess to do so.” </p><p>“And it’s easier for these men to let their guard down around a woman and even get in the car with them –“ Dave fills in. </p><p>“So they know her already –“ Morgan says thoughtfully. </p><p>“We need to rethink the profile” Hotch concludes. </p><p>- </p><p>It’s how the spend the rest of the night. They switch gears and delve into possible motives and locations a female unsub could have had access to. </p><p>At breakfast time – when they’re all eating around the table, papers messily pushed around to make space for their trays, Garcia sends over new lists. Employer’s records of Brook’s and even the hotel Hotch and you had been at. When it’s noon, all of them a bit drained yet still pushing on – Reid updates them with his findings. He’s managed to narrow the list to 30 names and they all do another tiring recap of everything together.  </p><p>At almost 4pm, Garcia calls them again, this time with a name who matches their profile to the T. She shows them photos of a few newspaper clippings from a car crash at a highway just outside the city.  </p><p>“She’s mid-30s, Seattle-native, and she’s been working as a maid for Brook’s for the past year and a half. Her 2 year old daughter died in a car crash a month ago-“ </p><p>“Just before the first murder” Dave chimes in. </p><p>“-<em>and oh</em>-“ </p><p>More typing from Garcia as the screen switches to show them a few adoption papers, dating almost a year ago. </p><p>“She was the biological daughter of her sister -  Sophia Grata” Garcia sighs loudly over the speaker, a sign that whatever she’s reading is utterly tragic. “Her sister passed away at a home invasion. She was working as a housecleaner for a family and they were out of town when it happened. She died in the hospital bed” </p><p>A few photos and cut-outs of news' articles flash before them all – of the break-in story, the tragic passing of the sister and then – </p><p>JJ appears in one of those newspaper clippings, while giving a press conference. </p><p>They all halt – looking at each other. </p><p>“Garcia, when was this?” Morgan asks what they’re all wondering. </p><p>“Oh-“ she’s stopped as well, “-I think we solved this case.” </p><p>“The robbery-homicide?” JJ turns to Hotch, who’s as shocked as her. </p><p>“She was listed as the victim’s family –“ Garcia tells them as he takes a deep breath. </p><p>Gideon and Hotch had been the ones to question the family of the first victim. <em>And they’d done so at</em> – </p><p>A photo of the woman finally takes up the whole screen. Short black hair tucked in a ponytail and a birthmark on her chin. </p><p>“Maria Grata” Garcia says, “and <em>oh my God</em> –“ </p><p>And Hotch recognizes the woman – he never forgets a face. Not only because of his job, but because it had been the second time – </p><p>“She used to work as a live-in maid for –“ </p><p>For <em>you.  </em> </p><p>They all turn to stare at Hotch, evident surprise in all of their faces.  </p><p>- </p><p>They find the woman living in a recluse social housing unit – the conditions of which make them all very cognizant of the misery she’s sustained her entire life. </p><p>She doesn’t resist arrest, and does not protest when they place her in the interrogation room for hours at a time. Their tactic at making her tired in order to get her to confess does not work. Even though they find several knives – she says they’re for cooking – and cleaning supplies, which she justifies too. Prentiss and Hotch take their turns interrogating her with no avail. And the murder weapon – the .21 pistol is nowhere at her place.  </p><p>They’re all spent – their energies in a mixture of relief and conviction for having found her, and yet frustrated because she won’t speak. </p><p>Another slamming of his hands over the table but she gives Hotch a sullen look this time – completely unresponsive.  </p><p>He leaves the room in a flurry, slamming the door behind him. The others pay no mind at his behavior. Not even when he barricades himself in his office.  </p><p>He plops down on a chair, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Calming himself down.  </p><p>He eyes the clock on the wall before him. It’s almost 4pm – the time Haley makes it home after picking up Jack from kindergarten. And his son’s voice is the one cure and comfort in his life. He picks up the phone, pressing 1 in the speed dial. The phone hasn’t even rang once before he hangs up. </p><p>It’s <em>not </em>cheating – </p><p>That’s the first thought in his head. Because <em>it’s not cheating</em> – not when they’ve been divorced for months. </p><p>Haley had moved out of their place without even waiting for him to be home in order to discuss again. </p><p>If anything she<em> had possibly been – </em> </p><p><em> No</em> – he shakes his head. That train of thought only leads him to  doubts, misery and even the truth – because he is a profiler. And even if his <em>own </em>wife had been hiding it, he <em>knew. </em> </p><p>Yet, it still feels<em> wrong</em> in a way he cannot comprehend. </p><p>He’d been grateful for the intensity of this night and today too. His mind ran non-stop when he found himself in quiet or alone. Flashbacks from the night before running on a loop in his head, unconsciously.  </p><p><em> The fluctuation of your voice as you called him</em> agent. <em>Your fingers scraping deliciously over his scalp, tugging his locks, as if you couldn't get enough of him - as if you wanted your bodies to melt together. </em></p><p><em> No </em> – because he’d never been that illogical, impulsive or unrestrained.  </p><p>
  <em> The shape of your mouth falling open, – breathing loud and deep, blissfully looking into his eyes with desire -</em>
</p><p><em> Not </em>  even with Haley had he felt as <em>lost</em>. Like a man shipwrecked at sea - that is how he felt in the expanse of his lust.</p><p><em>Your boldness rendering him breathless</em> - <em>turning him into a compliant servant, willing to obey your every wish unabashedly.</em></p><p>And they’d been married. They had been happy and content with their sex lives and yet he’d <em>never  </em>–  </p><p><em>They’d</em> never been<em> so engrossed</em> with each other to forget their entire surroundings.  </p><p>The heel of his palm under his chin hoists his head up over the table, as he runs a finger over his lips – </p><p>Because he remembers your mouth on his, every time he speaks<em>. </em></p><p><em>The taste of honey and almonds of your perfume on his tongue. Your cherry sweet lips, full and ripe, capturing his - etched forever in his brain. The</em><em>words exhaled out your mouth like prayers to a god that doesn’t exist because of his fingers, as you</em> <em>– </em> </p><p> </p><p>A knock on the door makes him snap out of it, efficiently.  </p><p>Dave pops his head in. He frowns as soon as he observes Hotch sitting there, lost in his own thoughts. </p><p>He walks in, hands in his pockets as he stops in front of his friend. </p><p>“This is going to take us another night” Dave says. He’s shed off his suit jacket and necktie as well, and his under eye circles are deep on his face. </p><p>“We can do shifts” Hotch proposes, “You can all take some time to rest and I'll stay here” </p><p>Dave nods, gaze somewhere else – thinking.  </p><p>“Maria used to work for <em>her </em>” Dave says slowly, measuring his words before they’re out. </p><p>“I’m aware” Hotch replies, willing his voice to remain steeled. </p><p>“Maybe a friendly face would make her crack” </p><p>Hotch looks at Dave – the word <em>no</em> at the tip of his tongue. But now, he’s overthinking the speed to which he gives his answers. He hesitates for other reasons as well, because Maria knows you – and she knows your <em>husband</em> as well. </p><p>“Fine” he exhales, defeated. “You may go pick her up” </p><p>Dave cocks an eyebrow quizzically. </p><p>“She seemed pretty close to Maria-“ he explains, remembering distinctly how kind you were to the woman a year ago. He remembers even how you’d offered to cook for them all. “-if you explain it to her on the phone, she’ll be –“ </p><p> </p><p>He pauses. She’ll be <em>sad?  </em>– Is that what he was going to say? </p><p>Dave nods, thankfully not letting him finish that sentence. </p><p>“I understand” </p><p>But he doesn’t leave the office. He stares at Hotch – </p><p>“That’s considerate of you” Dave says, “I see you’ve switched to honey instead of vinegar.” </p><p>There’s a hint of a smile on his face, yet Hotch has no patience for it. </p><p>“I bet if you went it would be even better-“ </p><p>“Dave-“ </p><p>“- I thought you’d even be in good terms after<em> yesterday </em>” </p><p>Hotch’s heart drops to his stomach – had he been <em>that</em> <em>transparent </em>that anyone could tell? </p><p>“What?” Hotch asks, voice betraying his worry. </p><p>“After working undercover so well” Dave says, pausing to throw him a look - studying him.  </p><p>“Right” Hotch repeats, shielding his face again. It takes him an unnerving amount of time to speak again. </p><p>“Yes. We are, I <em>guess</em>.” </p><p>Dave’s prying eyes don’t leave him though.  </p><p>“Is it Jack?” he asks, pointing at the phone in Hotch’s hand.  </p><p>He notices it too now – dropping it over the table like it burns his palm. He'd had a tight grip on the phone ever ever since he'd wanted to make that phone call - unknowingly so. </p><p>“No” </p><p>“Haley?” </p><p>“Yes” he lies through his teeth. And as he predicts, Dave lets it go. </p><p>“Come on then, some fresh air would do you good. You’ve been stuck in this building since last night. Seeing the sun would do you good” </p><p>He agrees, fearing that if he doesn’t Dave will read into it.  </p><p>“I’m curious to hear her recounting of the story” Dave says with the giddiness of a child. </p><p>“I<em> already</em> told you the story” Hotch stands up, picking up only his sunglasses. </p><p>“Yes” Dave agrees, “but you don’t know the family drama, Aaron. And you have to admit-“ </p><p>They walk together outside, making their way to Hotch's SUV. The sun on his skin is a welcoming change to the light from the fluorescent tubes of the offices.</p><p>“-her voice is easier on the ear than yours” </p><p>He puts the sunglasses on – flashbacks taking his mind again. This time he remembers the <em>sounds</em> escaping your throat – and it makes him breathless, his movements slower as he opens the door. </p><p>He clears his throat, hopping in the driver’s seat – grateful that his attention span will be busy with driving them there and back. </p><p> </p><p>- </p><p>Hotch had been right to take his sunglasses with him. Absurdly the smartest decision of his life by far, because he can’t meet your eyes. It makes for the perfect disguise from Dave.  </p><p>Though, he still manages to steal glances here and there in the rear-view mirror. But it ceases after some time because he’s for certain going to crash the car if he stares at you again.  </p><p>Once in the police department, Dave and Hotch have an unspoken agreement – not telling you about Maria until they absolutely<em> have to</em>. Which takes them longer than it should. Hotch doesn’t want to be the one to break the news first. And Dave, <em>well</em>... </p><p>Hotch thinks Dave is concerned about your wellbeing. He tries to hide it, even from Hotch, yet he offers you a coffee first, then makes a few jokes until he sees you get comfortable inside the police department. It’s like he’s warming you up to the news but it takes longer than it would normally with the families of victims or unsubs. After Hotch listens to him sprout some other heedless information over cooking and whatnot, he places a hand over his friend’s shoulder – begging him to save them some time.  </p><p>“We have news over the <em>Bachelor Snatcher”  </em>Dave says, switching his tone to serious, voice remaining soft. </p><p>“Okay” you say, matching his body language.  </p><p>“It turns out we were wrong – our unsub is a woman-” </p><p>“Unsub?” you ask, interrupting him, dwelling on the wrong part of that statement. </p><p>“Unknown Subject – it is what we call the criminals” </p><p>“So...” you reply, “you think she’s a <em>woman</em>?” </p><p>“We know it is” Dave says. You glance at Hotch, eyebrows raised – expecting again for him to call you a criminal. “And we caught her too.” </p><p>“<em>Oh </em>” you breathe out, “who is it?” </p><p>“She’s in the interrogation room –“ Dave steers you towards the room they use to study the unsubs from the interrogation room. He opens the door, motioning for you to get inside. </p><p>You hesitate, planting your feet on the ground. </p><p>“No” your voice is already broken – Hotch is the only one who can sense it, because Dave only urges you to step inside.  </p><p>“<em>Who </em> is it?” you repeat, and this time you look at Hotch for a sign. You must sense something is inherently wrong just from that shared look because you don’t wait any longer. You barge in.  </p><p>“<em>No </em>-“  </p><p>Your words are weak, soft-spoken, filled with raw emotion. Hotch reaches for you, despite the entirety of him yelling not to.  </p><p>“<em>No, no, no</em>...” Tears fill your eyes – erupting like lightning. Dave is besides you – quicker than Hotch. </p><p>He’s the one with his arms around you as your knees give out. Hotch’s heart is in his throat as he helplessly watches you collapse to the ground as if in slow-motion. </p><p>“<em>Maria </em>-“ </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey yall !! thnx for reading - as always lemme know what y'all think! 💕💕💕</p><p>whatchu all think about the unsub? 🕵️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. La Malquerida</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You have to face Maria sooner than later - and confront your past as well.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Buckle up this is a long one!</p><p>in italics - flashbacks to the past</p><p>-<br/>title by the song from Natalia Lafourcade bcs its a damn good song</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You flush the toilet again – watching the remains of your lunch going down the drain. You stand up on wobbly feet and wash your face and mouth, popping a chewing gum you luckily find amongst the mess in your handbag.</p><p>It’s not the lowest you’ve been by far but puking out all the contents of your stomach in a police department has never been in your wish-list either. Agent Prentiss waits for you outside. Seeing her standing straight, arms crossed on her chest – your eyes glued at her FBI badge – makes you queasy again. </p><p>“Are you okay?” she asks, noting the staring. </p><p>“Oh, yeah” you shake your head, “it’s just not every day I get told that someone I know is a serial killer -”  </p><p>She shoots you a look, “I get it. I haven’t experienced it personally, but I understand” </p><p>“Yeah, when I found out about my father – I think I passed out” you say recalling the moment from 2 years ago right after they’d gotten him into custody. </p><p>You follow her into a small kitchenette, and she plucks a water bottle from the fridge, and hands it out to you. </p><p>“This is actually a bigger improvement” </p><p>She nods, and you know – without having to ask – why she’s the one tasked to keep an eye on you and not JJ. Because she’s the profiler amongst the two. </p><p>“Thanks” you down the whole thing, feeling like you’ve been parched for days in a desert. </p><p>You watch as she makes coffee – slow and measured maneuvers and it reminds you of Elle for some reason. If she’d been the one here, she would have asked you something right off the bat, not waiting for you to get comfortable at all. Agent Prentiss’ calmness bothers you much more.</p><p>When the smell of coffee wafts through the air, you wish you could drink some too for the nerves but in your state everything that ends up in your stomach will be ruined. She pours milk and sugar, stirring the liquid in the cup mindlessly, not paying you any attention. </p><p>“What happened to her?” Your words are barely audible as they leave your mouth. </p><p>“She was driving with her daughter back home, and they got into a car crash -” </p><p>You lean your weight over the counter, hand steady over the corner, feeling as weak as you’d felt when you saw Maria inside the interrogation room. </p><p>“- her daughter didn’t survive the crash” </p><p>You squeeze your eyes shut - </p><p>The poor woman... after<em> everything</em>. </p><p>“We think she’s been targeting these men through Brook’s - the gentlemen’s club” </p><p>You focus on your breathing – in and out, slowly, counting them down in your head. One – inhale and deep exhale. </p><p>“And it’s how she’d been able to get them to get into her car –” </p><p>Two. Same thing. </p><p>“- she probably shot them as they were trying to get out -” </p><p>Panic rises inside you again, but now it finds nothing to take out of you so you grip on the counter for dear life. </p><p>“<em>Please </em>-” you croak out, “I don’t want to know-” </p><p>It’s meaningless. Because even if she were to spare you –<em>then</em> what? You’d just skip straight to the part where you’re supposed to get into that interrogation room and talk to her – like the last year and a half have been for naught? </p><p>“I’m sorry” Agent Prentiss says softly, an arm over your shoulder. “But you’re the only one who can help us at this point” </p><p>Her words make you freeze –<em> help? </em> </p><p>“I don’t know how much Rossi and Hotch told you, but she hasn’t said a word, and we need a confession. Without the murder weapon we don’t have much to hold her.” </p><p>The wheels in your brain are whirring, despite your body being tired. </p><p>“We think -” she pushes, “that <em>if you were</em> to speak with her, the friendly face would make her understand the extent of her actions.” </p><p>And thank God your body is tired because you would have not been able to restrain your visceral reaction otherwise. </p><p>“We just need her to see that other people – people she was close to – think what she did is wrong. That’s the only reaction we are hoping to get.” </p><p>“Right” you say. With the mental and physical exhaustion overtaking you it’s like your body switches to default mode – expressions still and dejected, while your words tune out the emotions that pour out of you.  </p><p>“You’re our only chance” </p><p><em> Fuck</em>. </p><p>“Okay” you breathe out, “I’ll do it -” </p><p>“Take your time” she interjects, patting your shoulder then letting go. She heads back to the rooms they’d turned into offices inside the Seattle PD. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p><em> Gripping her arms, you pull her with force off the ground. You don’t let her go until you make sure she can stand on her own two feet. She’s still shaking – tears rolling down her face like a never-ending stream. Your eyes are glued to the fresh cuts on her torso, zigzagged superficial lines that to you – seem </em><em>fluorescent</em><em> in contrast to her skin. There’s bile on your throat – and rage. Yet you’ve never felt more composed. </em> </p><p><em> “Are you okay?” She’s lost within her head – not here nor there like a walking zombie. You call her name again. </em> </p><p><em> “Maria, are you okay?” </em> </p><p><em> She looks at you with glassy eyes – and you repeat the question again louder. </em> </p><p><em> “I-I am...” she looks at the ground before you, the grey calcite marble tiles of the kitchen floor painted red. You turn her swiftly to face you, tearing her eyes away. </em> </p><p><em> “I didn’t mean to-” she lets out meekly, “I’m so-sorry" she grips your elbows as if she can convince you through physical contact only, “I really didn’t mean to – please, </em><em>kno</em><em>-know I didn’t mean -” </em> </p><p><em> And if you weren’t so shocked, you would have hugged her for comfort. You would have lied to her – told her it will all be fine. But you’re not sure if it </em>ever<em> will. </em> </p><p><em> You shush her either way, circling an arm affectionately around her –  </em> </p><p><em> Your other hand latches on the hold she has on the sharp object on her right – she lets it fall to your open palm, and your fingers become coated at once with the </em><em>warm</em><em> blood.  </em> </p><p><em> Droplets </em><em>drip down </em><em>on the floor between you. </em> </p><p><em> “It’s okay </em><em>Maria  </em> <em> –“ you reassure her softly.  </em></p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Someone comes to check up on you – finding you still in the kitchenette.  </p><p>They steer you gently towards an empty desk, making you sit down on a chair. And when you shiver again, the room temperature of the building a bit too low for comfort – a jacket is around your shoulders, bringing heat back into your body. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p><em> “What do I</em><em> do-“  </em> </p><p><em> You shush her again. She senses the eerie calmness that has overtaken you, the way your face seems to be steeled – and flinches away from your touch, taking a step back.  </em> </p><p><em> A baby’s cries ring in the background, killing the quiet of the building. </em> </p><p><em> “The baby-“ she lets out, “I-I can’t do this... I will be-“ </em> </p><p><em> And you make a decision then – no time for hesitation. Planting both hands on her shoulders you make her look at you and focus only on the next words you’re going to say. </em> </p><p><em> “</em><em>Listen to me – you are going to take that baby and leave </em>now<em>.” </em> </p><p><em> “But I-I...” </em> </p><p><em> You squeeze her shoulders. </em> </p><p><em> “No. There’s </em>nothing <em>else. Nothing more important then your baby and you – do you hear me?</em><em>” </em> </p><p><em> You remember then the stack of cash you keep in a safe here in the kitchen for emergencies – your own past traumas finally helpful. </em> </p><p><em> “I want you to pack but take only the essentials – then take your baby and leave</em><em>. Get out of this area, of Seattle, </em>anywhere<em>-“ </em> </p><p><em> “Ma’am –“ </em> </p><p><em> Her slowness and hesitation frustrates and you finally erupt – voice loud and echoing in the kitchen. </em> </p><p><em> “Maria! </em><em>Think about your sister.” </em> </p><p><em> She stops then – the shaking, the crying too, her entire focus zeroing in the baby in the other room. </em> </p><p><em> “Okay.” </em> </p><p><em> You watch her go, running to the child. You open the safe behind the small painting of an evergreen forest by the fridge – and you try not to obsesses over the fact that none of you mentioned  </em> him <em>lying on the floor.</em><em>You can’t look either. Not without having to come to terms with the finality of it all. </em> </p><p><em>The baby’s cries still continue in the house – deadening every other noise and your thoughts. You find Maria staring at the crib – a few feet away, unable to get closer. A new shirt covers her fresh wounds. You walk in, taking the baby from the crib. </em> </p><p><em> “Hey sweetie,“ your soft, low voice is soothing to the baby but she continues crying  </em> <em> because she doesn’t recognize you. </em> </p><p><em> Being with Therese then helps – witnessing her take care of her children has taught you a thing or too. Because you start swaying little by little, rocking the baby back to sleep. </em> <em>Her huge blue eyes stare intently into yours. </em> <em>After a minute she quiets down – her innocent eyes not knowing what is going on around her. She dozes off to sleep when everything around her is quiet. </em> <em>You hold her out to Maria and she wordlessly takes her. </em></p><p><em>You pick up the bag at her feet – thankful that she was able to pack. You steer her to the door, and make sure she also gets into the car. </em><em>She can’t be driving at this state – nobody could. But it’s the only solution you can think of. You make sure the child is tucked in the baby seat, and secure. </em><em>Then, you guide Maria into the driver’s, making sure she puts her seatbelt on as well. </em> </p><p><em> “I shouldn’t leave-“ she starts, “- you shouldn’t have to do it alone.” </em> </p><p><em> You shake your head, taking out the cash and  </em> <em> visibly sticking it into her bag so she knows. Her eyes go wide. </em> </p><p><em> “It’s my fault-“ she says in a flurry. “It’s my fault, I swear...  </em> <em> that your husband – that he'</em><em>s</em><em>...” </em> </p><p><em> But you can’t let her speak – because it would make it </em>real<em>. </em> </p><p><em> “No” you cut her off, “It’s not </em><em>your</em><em> fault. </em><em>It’s </em><em>his.</em><em>” </em> </p><p><em> She nods slowly. </em> </p><p><em> “You have enough to last you a few months. Please, do not contact us. Do not show up here. Whatever happens, Maria. Don’t ever get in touch. Understood?” </em> </p><p><em> She nods, and you close the door. She only answers a few questions while you stand there, watching her turn on the engine. You don’t budge when she drives out of the parking lot – not even when she’s out of view. </em> </p><p><em> Taking a deep  </em> <em> breath, </em><em>you look towards the house and even though you want to feel ready and steady – you simply can’t.  </em> </p><p><em> Because you need to take care of </em>him – of Nathan lying limp on the kitchen floor<em>. </em> </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” Agent Rossi pats your shoulder, effectively shaking you out of your trance. “I think you should go home. I’ll drive you” </p><p>“What?” You look around you – the floor is almost empty. The clock hanging on the wall indicates 2 hours have passed by with you just standing here. </p><p>“I’ll drive you” he repeats. </p><p>You stand up, “What about Maria? What about me talking to her?” </p><p>His eyebrows go up – </p><p>“You’re in no state to do that. We misjudged, didn’t think about how this would affect you mentally after your father-“ </p><p><em> Mentally? </em> </p><p>“No. I’ll do it” you let out breathlessly. He notes your shaking hands but you stick them in the pockets of your dress. “Let me speak to her. Please.” </p><p>He doesn’t seem convinced but when you hold your head a bit higher than before to show some kind of false confidence – he nods. </p><p><em> It’s the least you can do </em> - that’s the mantra you repeat to yourself as he instructs you on how to speak to her. </p><p><em> After what your husband did to her. </em>Agent Rossi tells you to not address the murders directly but to talk about how it feels that she took away someone’s child – someone’s son. He says they want her to crack through that wording since her own daughter passed away so tragically. You ready yourself, as much as you possibly can, and walk in. </p><p>She stands slouched in the chair, hands clasped together but not cuffed. You take in the hair first – still that same length she always kept. She doesn’t look up when you close the door behind you, and not even when you sit down before her. </p><p>Her hands are calloused, not as soft as they once looked when she’d teach you how to make bread in the kitchen. When she’d roll the dough in her expert hands and hold it out for you to see – explaining how it should look like before baking it. Her face is hollow and thinned, deep under eye circles that make your heart pained – because she looks almost the same as one year and a half ago. You can’t bring yourself to say her name, afraid it will take you back to that night. </p><p>“Hi” you mutter. </p><p>She looks up, surprised by your voice -  </p><p>Her eyes go wide when she sees you, and she slowly straightens up, leaning back on her chair. It’s like you’ve flipped a switch because her entire posture changes, going from looking like a victim – tragic and helpless, to a confident individual. Like she’d been raised with the same privileges of all those men. And you don’t have a doubt in your mind – <em>she killed them. </em> She nods slowly, the only sign of acknowledgment that she recognizes you.  </p><p>“It’s been a while” you croak out and she cocks an eyebrow. “They told me what you – what you did. Everyone one of those men was someone-” </p><p>But you can’t say the word <em>child –  </em>it's unfair. She watches you calmly, waiting for you to finish your sentence. You read the paper Agent Rossi had given you – the list of names, pronouncing them aloud in an attempt to humanize them. </p><p>“-they didn’t deserve it” you say once done. </p><p>A few minutes pass by in silence and then. </p><p>“I didn’t do anything to them” she speaks slowly, words measured and not betraying any emotion. “If anything - I let them disrespect me, call me names, leer at me. I even heard them say derogatory words about their wives and girlfriends – and any other woman.” </p><p><em> Did your words make her this way – did your calmness that night lead her to think that there was nothing wrong? </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> When you gave me that job after my sister passed away, and when you didn’t mind having a baby in the house-”  she says then, freezing you in place. “You <em>saved</em> my life.” </p><p>You pause, reading between the lines. She’s talking about much more than having given her a place to live in and work at. She’d probably read it or heard it everywhere – followed the news when Nathan went missing.</p><p>She knows you’ve been called a murderer. She knows about the allegations and the conspiracies; and the media assault his family had conducted on you. And yet never came forward to say anything. Maria had followed your instructions from that night to the T. </p><p>“They were the same” she drawls out, giving you time to digest the implication of her words. “I did it because they were all<em> the same </em>” </p><p>Your heart drops to your stomach, understanding at once –<em> they were all like Nathan</em>.  </p><p>She leans forward, wicked smile on her face.  </p><p>“And I had <em>more</em> to go – to rid the world of people like them.” </p><p>The door bursts open and you’re ushered out. You’re numb and running on automatic, not comprehending the chaos around you. You spot Agent Morgan and Prentiss shutting the door as you leave the interrogation room. </p><p>“Good job” Agent Rossi says beside you – his voice sounding like it originates from miles away.  </p><p>You feel cornered and claustrophobic by his presence – and the jacket still on your shoulders feels too much. Upon taking it off you hold it out for him. </p><p>“Thanks for this. I’m going to take a cab home” </p><p>He watches you with amusement, hint of a smile on his face. </p><p>“That’s not mine” he says.</p><p>You notice only now that he’s still wearing his, while the one you’d been wearing is dark navy. You'd assumed it was his from his ever-present kindness. But of course, it was Hotch’s - you can smell the cologne lingering on it, now on your hair and shoulders too. It’s why you’d felt so comforted. </p><p>Your feet move on their own, leading you to Hotch’s office. You knock lightly once before stepping inside. He’s sitting down on his desk, scribbling on some papers. He jolts out of his seat when he sees you, standing up at once.</p><p>“I’m heading back”  </p><p>It’s the first time you’re alone since the night before and you’re too aware of the fact he’s still wearing the dark navy suit. But you don’t feel like making the distance to his desk, so you drape the suit jacket over the couch by the door. </p><p>“You didn’t have to do that” he says. </p><p>You frown. “It’s <em>your </em>jacket-” </p><p>“Talking to her” he clarifies. He doesn’t move from behind his desk either. Both of you are unable of moving. </p><p>“But you did good –” </p><p>A flush of <em>something</em> overtakes you – remembering his appraisal from last night. So, he only showers you in compliments only when you assist his investigations or when he’s – </p><p>“Thank you” </p><p>“Sure” you leave before any more words can be exchanged. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Was this the first time he did it, Maria?” </em> </p><p><em> She shakes her head – and you feel like you’ve been stabbed, more deeply and painfully than her. </em> </p><p><em> “Why did you say it was okay?” </em> </p><p><em> She looks down, incapable of meeting your eyes. Her entire body is shaking from the shock -  </em> </p><p><em> “You said it was okay – Maria. When I found you. Is that what he told you when he kept doing it – when he was torturing you?” </em> </p><p><em> She lets out a whimpering  </em>no. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>You take another shot, watching the bullet pierce the cutout with the target on its head - right between the eyebrows if it had been a person instead. Every time you shoot, the sound of the gun erupting through the firing range makes you a bit calmer. </p><p>When you’re out of bullets you leave the gun carelessly over the table. A supervisor from the range picks it up at once as you move away. It’s not until you’re in the dressing rooms that you take off the noise cancelling headphones, throwing them over a bench.</p><p>The cab had driven you from the police department to the firing range. Since you were still wearing a dress, you’d had to change to a sleeved shirt and tactical pants to pair with your holster – for safety reasons. And you’ve been practicing your draw for 2 hours, grateful that your amicability with the owner let you in even after closing hours. </p><p>You’re back wearing your own clothes when the door bursts open. On normal days seeing your former mother-in-law stride in unannounced would have made you worried. A long time ago, even scared. But after today, after seeing Maria, you’re unfazed. </p><p>She doesn’t wait for an invitation. Donning a pale blue suit this time, and her white hair in a ponytail, she stops before you with a sealed document on her hands. </p><p>“Lucille” you greet. </p><p>Some nerve she has to show up at the firing range – too bad she didn’t do so while you were still outside with a gun on your hands. </p><p>“Are you stalking me?” you cup your chin as if you’re thinking it over, “Oh no. You are. I forgot. Thought you stopped after Nathan got married though. It’s a shock you haven’t barged into my house as well.” You fold the clothes you’d taken off, leaving them tidily in a corner. </p><p>“Are you planning on doing that soon? Let me know so I can cook for more than one person.” </p><p>You sit down over the bench, leaning down to take off your shoes next. She scoffs, and drops the document over the bench with a thud. </p><p>“I’m going to be direct – you <em>will</em> invest in Clover. I don’t care that you don't want to. I don’t care what you think about me, about my family. <em>I don’t even care what you did to my son </em>” </p><p>You look up at her strained voice, ignoring the document she so clearly wants you to read. </p><p>“Why would I do that?”  </p><p>“Because if not -” </p><p>You stand up, predicting the threat that will follow – that <em>always</em> seems to follow whenever she confronts you about something. She narrows the distance, spitting out the next words. </p><p>“If you don’t - I will make your life miserable.” Her voice shatters the quiet - loud, rumbling and dangerous.  “Next time it will be your dead body in a ditch somewhere – because Nathan is not around to protect you anymore.” </p><p>You snort – her words having no significant effect on you.  It makes her angrier – rage continuing to boil inside her, visible through the deep scowl on her face, and the clenched fists at her sides. </p><p>“Aren’t your family rich? Why do you need investment, Lucille? Are you so adamant not to spend your<em> own</em> money?” </p><p>She takes a step back, crossing her arms over her chest in order to restrain herself. The smile appearing on her face makes you frown. </p><p>“You don’t know – do you?” </p><p>“Know what?” you ask. </p><p>She lets out a small laugh. “That’s a good lie. We both know you killed Nathan for the <em>inheritance</em>.” </p><p>You’re plain confused at her words. “What fucking inheritance?” </p><p>She bops her head to the document on the wooden bench. </p><p>“My son, Nathan – he signed off all his inheritance to you. All assets of Anderson Co., every single property that his father left for him on the will.” </p><p>You stare at her without blinking, mouth dropping open. </p><p>“Are you kidding me?” </p><p>She finally explodes with anger – her palm cracking down across your cheek, slapping so hard it rings in the quiet of the locker room. </p><p>“Stop <em>fucking </em>  lying to me – “She starts waving a finger at you, eyebrows curled together aggressively, as you hold a hand to the burned print she’s surely left on your face. “- <em> you know </em>! It’s why you killed him! It's why you took my son away from me!” </p><p>You can barely register her words. Your heartbeat is so loud in your ears you fear there’s something wrong with your body. You’re at a loss for words, thunderstruck.</p><p>Because it can’t be true – </p><p>You’d never talked about a will.</p><p>He’d never even asked you – <em>but to leave you the entire tech company as if it was nothing?</em> </p><p>As if you’d ever wanted anything to do with it? What was he thinking? You manage to zone back into Lucille screaming her heart out at you – while you’re still at a loss for words. </p><p>“You will pay back what you owe to my family!” She says, coming down from her tirade. “If you ever loved Nathan – you will invest in Clover. Or<em> I will kill you </em> with my own bare hands.” </p><p>She waits a beat, making sure you’re getting the severity of her words. It explains why she’d made that embezzling allegation and faked every single document, everything only to keep you from knowing about the will – or trying to get your hands on it. </p><p>Lucille storms out, leaving you alone with the shock of her words. You rip open the envelope, taking out the document. Your eyes merely scan it, skimming to the end to the listing of properties and sums left over - </p><p>And her words are true. </p><p>You don’t know how you sit down, but you have to when the weight of your body feels too much to bear. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Bypassing the young secretary – a young blonde with a low neckline, too low to pass off as workplace attire – you push through to Nathan’s office. Large glass doors, which open up to an expansive office – modern, minimalistic interior design with its couches and sofas on one side and his large desk on the other. </em>
</p><p><em>Floor to ceiling windows take up an entire wall and look out to the skyline of Seattle – 20 floors up. </em><em>You stride in, ignoring the shouts of the woman, shutting the door on her face. </em><em>Nathan and his friend – who you notice just now – stop talking, heads turning to the commotion. </em> </p><p><em> “What-“ his friend lets out, amused, looking you up and down as you walk with purpose towards them. </em> </p><p><em> Nathan doesn’t react until you narrow the distance – smile splitting his face once he takes in the  </em> magazine <em>  in your hand.  </em> </p><p><em> “Hey, </em><em>darling </em> <em> -“ he says in his usual sweet voice – and you ignore it this time. You have to for your own sake.  </em> </p><p><em> You throw the magazine over his desk, but he’s unfazed. Even as he glances at the front page –  </em> </p><p>Playboy Nathan: The secret life of the tech millionaire </p><p><em> Which brandishes a photo of Nathan, his button-down open across his chest, over joyous as he holds close a girl wearing a skimpy dress, a hand over her hip – as she’s obscenely kissing him, open-mouthed and sloppily. </em> </p><p><em> The photo luckily hides her face but he and you both know – </em>the girl is you. </p><p><em> He turns to the other man.</em> "<em>Alex, this is my friend-“ </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> Acquaintance <em> ” you correct, crossing your arms across your chest.  </em> </p><p><em> His friend, Alex extends his hand to shake and you finally pay attention to him after being too caught by Nathan and the way he seems to not mind the fact you’re both across all tabloids in the state. </em> <em>He’s dark-haired, smiling friendly, but you’d recognize that slim moustache on his face everywhere – even at daylight, too distinct not to. </em></p><p><em>The</em> scumbag<em> from the strip club. </em><em>You shake his hand as he repeats his name, no apparent connection that he’s seen you before. </em><em>So, you don’t pay him any mind. </em> </p><p><em> “Did we have a  </em> <em> meeting  </em> <em> today, </em>darling<em>?” </em> </p><p><em> You shake your head –  </em> </p><p><em> “No. Not this month either” you retort. Like you’re going to continue this arrangement like normal. What happens the next time the paparazzi take a photo of your face? </em> </p><p><em> What happens when they start investigating you – curious about the  </em> <em> new girl  </em> <em> in his arms? </em> <em>And find out you father is a serial killer? Damn the name change and relocation to another place – you'd be forever unable to escape from the fact you’re the daughter of Davis Finch. </em></p><p><em>He chuckles, leaning forward, elbows over the table. He stares you down as if considering just how serious you are. When you don’t budge, he shoots up, turning to his friend. </em> </p><p><em> “Sorry, Alex. Just hit me up later and we’ll discuss” He steers the man to the doors with a hand over his shoulder.  </em> </p><p><em> Alex keeps staring at you, smirking at you both. </em> </p><p><em> “Pleasure to meet you __ </em> <em> _ “ </em> </p><p><em> He waits for you to jump in with your name but you don’t. </em> </p><p><em> “Shut up” Nathan pushes him out at last, returning to you after the door is shut. </em> </p><p><em> “You, know -” he pulls you in with his hands on your elbows, bending down to kiss you– “we’ve never had sex in my office before -”, but he ends up kissing your cheek instead as you move. </em> </p><p><em> “The tabloids, Nathan” but you can’t push him away, even as he tugs you in closer, his hands coming to rest over your waist.  </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> A playboy<em>.” </em> </p><p><em> He chuckles, the vibrations of his laugh felt over your forearms from his chest brushing against you. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> You’re the tech millionaire playboy<em>” you repeat again. </em> </p><p><em> He shrugs, “It’s not my preferred nickname but sure” This time when he leans down again for a kiss, you push him away gently.  </em> </p><p><em> “I’m not laughing, Nathan. I’m  </em> <em> serious  </em> <em> here” </em> </p><p><em> He watches you, eyebrows furrowing. </em> </p><p><em> “You’re </em>  serious<em>?” he asks, “you came all the way to my office to tell me you changed your mind and want to be in a relationship, now?” </em> </p><p><em> You snort, “Yes, exactly.” you start, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I saw our photo after we got out of the pub at 4am, after we </em>just <em>had sex in the bathroom, plastered on dozens of cheap magazines and thought – wow, the guy I’m hooking up with could actually turn out a great partner. So, why not just date him? Right? That’s </em>literally <em>how my mind was working.” </em> </p><p><em> The smile is unmoving on his face. “Seems a good line of thinking” </em> </p><p><em> “No - I’m not here to ask you to date me.”  </em> It’s the complete opposite actually<em>. “I’m here to officially terminate our arrangement” </em> </p><p><em> “Officially terminate?” he repeats – now he’s the annoyed one. “You could have just texted me this.” </em> </p><p>
  <em> “I thought I owed you the decency to do it in person” you say. </em>
</p><p><em>He shakes his head. </em> </p><p><em> “So, you don’t want to hook up anymore because the tabloids are calling me a playboy? Over one single photo? They’re going to tire after some time after seeing I’m having sex with </em>only one <em>girl -” </em> </p><p><em> He walks back to his desk, and you’re surprised for a split second – caught by his words, the casualty with which he’d said them. You’d  </em> <em> never  </em> <em> talked exclusivity before.  </em> </p><p><em> “-and that you’re pretty reserved. I’ve been dealing with these people all my life and you just have to not let them get to you. It’s simple” </em> </p><p><em> He sits down, picking up the magazine and throwing it in the trash bin at the side of his desk. </em> </p><p><em> “It’ll die down” he reassures, “just give it some time” </em> </p><p><em> “I don’t want to give it some time – I don’t want people to chase me down the street just so they can ask me about you.</em> I don’t know them to know me." </p><p><em> Nathan shuffles a few documents over his desk, and looks up at you.  </em> </p><p><em> “If they were to ask you – that'd be another thing we have in common” </em> </p><p>
  <em> You roll your eyes. It had been an entire month of this – of him asking you random questions about what you preferred to do in your free time, interests, work issues, or friends, even your family. He’d found a week ago – when you’d exclaimed loudly on a phone call with Therese that you loved the color blue (she was talking about a new pair of heels she wanted to buy). </em>
</p><p><em>He’d bugged you the entire week, texting you photos of blue objects he’d come across to in his day-to-day – pens, folders, desktop images, umbrellas, shoes, anything – glad over the fact his favorite color was also blue. And you didn’t correct him over it – because it made him so ridiculously and annoyingly happy. </em> </p><p><em> “Nathan, please. I just don’t have the energy to fight you on this -” </em> </p><p><em> “So, don’t -” he interrupts. “Don’t break this off only because paparazzi might actually come to know you more than I do – and I’ve been sleeping with you for </em>months <em>now.” </em> </p><p><em> “Nathan -”  </em> </p><p><em> “I don’t understand you” he pushes the documents away, standing up again, “Fine. You want to not see each other again? Done. Was good to conduct business with you. The pleasure was mine” </em> </p><p>
  <em> He extends his hand for you to shake – as if you’d just been interviewing for a job. </em>
</p><p><em>When you don’t – he turns around to look out the windows, back to you. </em> </p><p><em> And you don’t know what comes over you. Maybe it’s because if you’d wanted to break it off as he said you could have done so via text. You wanted to see him – at least one last time before parting. Finally, you talk. </em> </p><p>
  <em> “This is not my real name” you blurt out. </em>
</p><p><em>He whips around to face you. </em> </p><p><em> “What?” </em> </p><p><em> “I changed my name. I don’t tell you anything about me because I don’t want you to know me. Because my family was fucked up – and it </em>messed me up",<em> you let out, feeling shame and guilt – for something you hadn’t even done. </em></p><p>
  <em>He walks to you, pulling you to him and you comply. He holds your hands in his, watching you in that same way he does whenever you leave his place the morning after. </em>
</p><p><em>What if he doesn’t look at you the same way? What if he calls you </em>rotten<em>– like you’ve always felt?  </em> </p><p><em> You swallow nothing, giving yourself courage to continue. Because even if he does, at least he’d know the genuine reason you want to break up.  </em> </p><p><em> “My father is a serial killer” </em> </p><p><em> He pulls you in immediately, arms hugging you tight to his chest. </em> </p><p><em> “Oh, </em>darling<em>-” </em> </p><p><em> “Nathan” you mumble against him, “you’re crushing me” </em> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh,” he lets out another laugh, “sorry.” </em>
</p><p><em>He lets you go at last, his hands cupping the sides of your face. “ </em> That’s it<em>?” </em> </p><p>
  <em> You nod, confused and dumbfounded. That’s not a reaction anyone has ever had when you’d told him that.</em>
</p><p><em>“</em><em>Yeah” </em> </p><p><em> “That’s nothing  </em>to me" </p><p><em> His words do not comfort you – they have the opposite reaction but you chuck it up to the nervousness of finally opening up. </em> </p><p><em> -- </em> </p><p> </p><p>A knock pulls you out of the sea of your memories. You half expect to see Lucille again – but it’s Hotch. He stands by the door, refusing to come in. </p><p>“How did you find me?” you ask, looking up at him.</p><p>You’re officially drained, and you don’t want to do<em> this</em> now, after today. Whatever he wants to talk about or ask you about has to wait. Even if Maria had told him something from that night you don’t think you have fight left in you to protest or deny any accusations. </p><p>“Garcia” he says softly.  </p><p>“Right” </p><p>Their technical analyst was actually good – which is no surprise how she’d found you. From your phone signal, you assume. </p><p>“She told me you contacted her over Clover” </p><p>“I did” you admit, feeling it unnecessary to hide it from him. Not when Penelope was part of his team. “I wanted to know why they’re keeping it such a secret. I don’t know much about internet infrastructure or whatever bullshit she sprouted – so I wanted her opinion.” </p><p>“I understand” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “I asked her the same” </p><p>You feel his eyes on you as you fold the envelope with the will carelessly into your handbag, not minding if it’s going to fit or not. You just can’t bear seeing it any longer. </p><p>“I asked her to look into Lucille Anderson in depth as well” </p><p>You let out a huff at that – grateful that someone else had caught on to the woman’s shadiness. </p><p>“You don’t mind, do you?” </p><p>You snort at that, looking at him in surprise. “Why would I mind, Hotch?” Was he waiting for you to say aloud that you don’t really like the woman – was such confirmation even needed? </p><p>“The woman is a blood-sucking hound with only money on her mind” </p><p><em> Who is pissed off and willing to kill you because Nathan had left you his entire family fortune in the will.  </em> </p><p>“Who also paid me a visit before you did.” </p><p>The last sentence escapes you without permission. </p><p>“She did?” He crosses the threshold, stopping before you. “Are you okay?” </p><p>His sudden proximity brings an unwanted peace to your tensed body – it reacts without you realizing. And his worried words bring back heat to your skin, frozen by the events of today. </p><p>“She threatened me – a way to convince me to invest in Clover, I guess.” </p><p>His fingertips tease your right cheek, still flushed red with Lucille’s palmprint. You suck in a breath – feeling his touch light up your nerve endings. </p><p>“Sorry” he mumbles, and he retracts his hand, worried that he hurt you. You don’t let him, and clasp your hand over his, stopping it before it leaves your face. </p><p>“It’s okay.” you breathe out, not wanting him to part yet. “She’s always been a colossal bitch.” </p><p>A small smile pulls his lips upwards. His earnest eyes make you open up for the first time. You’d never done so – not even to Therese. She’d been opposed to you dating Nathan from the start, even if she’d been the one to drag you out to a concert only to meet Nathan and a group of his friends for the first time. Only to run into him at that gala. Telling her about how difficult his family was, felt like a lost battle. </p><p>“She found out we were going out through a tabloid” you say, breathing in when he leans in closer, his palm tentatively over your cheek, waiting for your confirmation that he’s not hurting you.</p><p>“She lost her mind completely – started by showing up at the condo, asking to meet me because he apparently talked about me so much.” </p><p>The smell of Hotch’s cologne makes the turmoil inside you quieter.  </p><p>“That was a lie.” You huff out at the memory of those days. Hotch’s attention on you is unwavering.</p><p>“She offered me money in return – for dumping her son. Told me I would amass to nothing and that my level of education, employment etc., would cause great pains to him. And I would ultimately lead him to a bad path in life.” </p><p><em> Like Nathan needed someone to do that for him. </em> </p><p>“Then when I didn’t accept after three times, with the amount of money increasing – she switched tactics” </p><p>Hotch furrows his eyebrows, already knowing somehow what you’re going to say. His thumb brushes gently over your red skin – pushing away the lingering memories of bad men showing up at your doorstep, at your line of work, always there - watching you without actually harming you. Her way of letting you know to back off. </p><p>When you voice those memories to Hotch, the lines of worry over his forehead pile up, eyebrows pulled taut together. </p><p>“Yeah,” you breathe out, “as I said - a bitch” </p><p>And you were the inane one even then – to still want to date Nathan, and be a part of his crazy family. </p><p>“I believe Clover is a front for something” Hotch says, “Garcia will find out. We’ll find it.” </p><p>His reassuring words are too much now – more overwhelming than his comforting touch. You step away and he parts from you, dropping his hand over his knee. </p><p>“Okay” you say, the tension between you two still thick even with no point of contact. “So, why are you here?” </p><p>He clears his throat, turning to look at the door, instead. </p><p>“I wanted to tell you Maria confessed – and we found the murder weapon.” </p><p>You stand up, putting some distance with him. Suddenly, you’re irritated by his presence, by the fact he thought that was something you needed to know to begin with.   </p><p>“Okay, cool. Very good how every person around me turns to be just pure evil. Thanks for the confirmation.” </p><p>He stands up as well, “I’m not here for that” </p><p>You slam the locker door, making you both flinch. </p><p>“Look, I’m glad your investigation is going well. I just need some distance-” </p><p><em> Distance? From him –? Well that’s a blatant lie.  </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>I wanted to thank you for helping us – without you...” </p><p>And it’s absolutely unnecessary of your mind to replay his words from last night – the ones spoken to you so sweetly and with awe. Those two words keep showing up in your head at the most inopportune moments and you found yourself flushing red with warmth. </p><p>Even now as those words bounce around in your head – <em> good girl. </em> </p><p>“I think you should move out of my house.” you let out, feeling breathless for some reason.  </p><p>“What?” </p><p>You look at him, trying to steel your face – hoping the red taking over your face looks to him like an effect of the slap.  </p><p>“You need to find another place to stay” </p><p>He stands up, “That’s not fair -” </p><p>“It’s not fair?” You snap, “It’s not fair I’m telling you to sleep somewhere else? Because of last night?” </p><p>He steps forward and you take one back – he flinches at your reaction, halting before you. </p><p>“What happened last night -” </p><p>“Is a mistake” you fill in. “It’s okay, I understand – you just got divorced and I needed a good lay-” </p><p>“Stop” he mutters, “that’s not what that was-” </p><p>You pause, caught by his words. “Then what was it, Hotch? You dropped me off at my house and left! What else could it have been?” </p><p><em> It’s stupid </em>– that's what you tell yourself. You should be hurt over the fact that you almost slept with the man who’s insisting in finding out your husband’s murderer. Instead, you’re hurt because he never brought it up – never made an effort to at least try to mention it. </p><p>He doesn’t answer your question, his next words a bit higher than the rest. “You didn’t say anything either!” </p><p>You bite your tongue – forcing yourself not to speak. What were you supposed to say – that you hated being interrupted? Had obsessed over it incessantly through the remainder of the night? Had even wondered in the shower what it would be like to kiss him again – <em>at day time</em>? </p><p>So, you say the next best thing. </p><p>“I want you out. You can tell your team whatever you want – maybe even the truth” </p><p>“Fine” he breathes out, still angry.</p><p>You sense he doesn’t want to let out – see the wheels turning in his head, prepared to say more. And you fear he’s going to win this argument if you let him speak. You’re worried he’s going to discover just how much you hate your own idea, in fact. </p><p>“I’ll make it simpler for you, since you don’t know how it usually works.” </p><p>His scowl grows deeper. </p><p>“Just because <em>you fucked me </em>– doesn't mean I suddenly like you. It doesn’t mean you have to like me either, okay? Is that clear?” </p><p>“Crystal” he lets out, his breathing deep, “I understand perfectly.” </p><p>Your heart beats loud in your chest – disappointment hitting you like a car crash as you watch him leave. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p><em> Your steps are measured, slow and </em> <em>quiet as you head back into your house. You lock the front door, and make a beeline for the kitchen. You switch on the lights – the pool of blood in the grey marble is bigger than it first was in the dark. </em></p><p><em>You pick up the knife you’d left over the kitchen island, twisting it around in your right hand until you feel comfortable with it, until you’re used to its weight. You follow the trail of blood outside, leading down the hall. It’s a continuous strip that you note leads to his office.  </em> </p><p>In your house – <em>you think. He’s been doing this shit for god-knows how long, in your house. </em> </p><p><em> You make a pit stop in the living room, pausing in front of your wedding portrait. The same one where you’re both looking at each other happily after finally tying the knot. </em><em>You put the blade of the knife between your teeth, holding it momentarily, as you take the painting off the wall with both hands, placing it gently against the chimney. A safe is uncovered - </em> </p><p><em> Inserting the passcode, you unlock it and take out a small handgun and a magazine, holstering them into the waistband of your pants. </em><em>You switch on the light of his office once you’re inside –  </em> </p><p><em> “In my house?” you hear yourself ask aloud – voice foreign to your own ears.  </em> </p><p><em>You walk the distance, stopping in front of his desk. </em> <em>He’s clutching his right arm to his chest, blood seeping into his clothes – while he’s limping with his right leg, dragging it behind him with great effort, until he plops down over the office chair - a whine escaping his throat.</em></p><p><em> “You did this in my fucking house?” </em> </p><p><em> He looks at you with shock in his eyes, as he struggles to control his breathing. </em><em>You raise your revolver – your hold on it steady and sure, eyes unblinking. </em> </p><p><em> “I want the truth, Nathan.” </em> </p><p><em> You cock the gun, aiming it between his eyebrows. </em> </p><p><em> “What did Maria mean when she said you’ve been doing this </em>for years?" </p><p><em> --- </em> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thnx for reading!!! 💕💕 and for stickin thru with this story!<br/>as always lemme know what u think!! </p><p>Hope the length of this and the flashbacks gives you a bit of information on what the husband was like - </p><p>(and yet thats only the tip of the iceberg to what the husband was doing 👀)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The Fucking Best</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You receive an unexpected visit at home -</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey all!! thnx for all the love 💕💕<br/>your comments make me so happy lol 😭</p><p>(pls dont hate me for this chapter lmao)<br/>Fluff and some angst ahead (sry) lol</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes a long phone call with Jack – about his friends, the toys at the kindergarten, stuffed animals and even nothing – for Hotch to unwind from the two days, seemingly stretching out with no end in sight. His son’s voice and laughter were like the sun, bringing light back into his life at the end of his bleak days, and especially after over-drawn cases like this one had been. </p><p>Hotch hates to admit – not when he now associates Haley’s voice to pain and his own shortcomings, feeling like the failed husband and father that he strongly believes he is – but even her voice brings him a familiar sense of peace as she picks up the phone.</p><p>Even if the minutes talking with her are brief. A simple, short explanation that he needs to hear Jack’s voice. And she understands right away – this particular case he’s solved has been difficult and draining. He misses that more than anything. Having someone know his intentions without having to voice them aloud. And that sense of peace he’s come to relate to his ex-wife rapidly shifts to ache again.  </p><p>The kind of ache that makes him want to stick around the office afterhours and overload himself with work without interruption, until his fingers are numb from writing, and his eyes dry from staring at papers. It’s the one that makes him refuse to sleep early, or be left alone with his thoughts. It’s what he deserves – he thinks. After all, he did choose his work over his family. Over the relationship with his wife – whom he still loves. </p><p>Hotch doesn’t explain the new sleeping situation to any of them. He simply calls Garcia, asking her to do something outside her line of work – call hotels and motels near the police department, and book rooms for them all for the night. They’re all too tired either way to question the sudden change.   </p><p>Everyone apart from Dave – obviously. He walks inside Hotch’s office wordlessly, looking around the walls and the furniture as if he’s fascinated with the interior design of Seattle PD. Meanwhile, Hotch packs his stuff a bit too loudly and aggressively, letting out his frustrations in childish ways. Dave’s silence sends him over the edge. He drops his suitcase over the table, looking up at the other man. </p><p>“What is it,<em> Dave</em>?” He inhales deeply, preparing himself emotionally for what his friend will throw at him this time. </p><p>“We’re sleeping in a motel tonight?”  </p><p>Hotch wants to laugh because Dave’s at least being brutally honest this time – putting his own comfort first. </p><p>“It’s closer to the PD” he answers calmly, hint of amusement in his words. “You’d have to settle for below-average sleeping conditions tonight” </p><p>“<em>Closer</em>” Dave draws out. “That’s incredibly efficient for our work” </p><p>Hotch narrows his eyes, “Yes” </p><p>“I thought we were past disagreements” he says, reading something from Hotch’s micro-expressions. </p><p>“What disagreements?” </p><p>Instead of answering, Dave sits down on the chair before his desk.  </p><p>“The team has been walking on eggshells ever since you got divorced, Aaron. Don’t misunderstand me – I'm not saying you’re being difficult but you said so yourself -” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“That the team shares everything.” </p><p>“Everyone knows about the divorce-” </p><p>Dave shakes his head, “That’s not all there is –<em> is there</em>?” </p><p>Hotch pauses, and he needn’t be this surprised – not when Dave had been the first to note the relationship with Haley had deteriorated. He'd pointed out the fact he’d stopped calling her 10 times a day, and ceased talking about her – then called Hotch out on wanting them all to share without doing it himself first. </p><p>“No” he says, having no desire to extend further. How is he supposed to say that he thinks she’d been cheating – or was possibly already with someone else?  </p><p>Dave nods in silent understanding. “It’s okay if we’re your soundboard for that-” </p><p>“It’s not” Hotch interrupts, “It’s not my intention to do that – I’m sorry” </p><p>Dave pauses, watching his friend with worried eyes, “Good” He slaps his hands over his thighs before standing up, “I hope you’re not doing the same with <em>her</em>” </p><p>He throws Hotch a knowing look. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep taking off Hotch’s filter, or the fact he’s sincerely at a loss – not knowing how to go on ahead with you. But he says it – blurting it out before Dave is at the door. He leaves it at the basics though. </p><p>“We kissed”  </p><p>Dave stops, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up so far up they end up lost in his hair. Then his surprise switches to levity, almost laughing at his face. He shoves his hands in his pockets. </p><p>“I feel the need to say this – when I quoted you<em> that</em> expression, this is not what I was hinting at you to do” </p><p>The corner of Hotch’s lips twitches up.  </p><p>“I know” he says. </p><p>“Okay then -” Dave looks at him quizzically, before smiling, “Well, in my experience... when a woman pushes you away it usually<em> always</em> means you need to apologize over <em>something” </em> </p><p><em> “She’s not-” </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> And with words, <em>this time”  </em>Dave lets out a small chuckle, stealing a quick glance at Hotch before leaving. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch doesn’t toss and turn all night – not exactly. But sleeping in a dirty motel room – walls so thin he can hear the cars passing by in the streets below and the people next doors, after having spent nights in one of the big bedrooms of your house – is a huge difference. </p><p>He can finally understand why Dave always complains about motel conditions. After sleeping well in a soft, big, clean mattress – everything else is bad by default. </p><p>It’s why he wakes up early – <em>too early</em> to call Haley to say good morning to Jack. He showers, changes clothes, and packs his bag, heading outside to watch the sunset. He leans his elbows over the railing of the third floor of this motel, and he can faintly smell the cigarette smoke in the air, even though there’s nobody by his side. No one is awake at this hour but him. Yet he turns to his right, remembering the sound of your laughter as he told you ridiculous things that first night in New York.</p><p>He recalls the way you held your cigarette – between your index finger and middle one, so close to your knuckles and with stretched and open fingers. And he knows the psychology of it too– it tells him you are sharp, with a contemplative character. Not that you aren’t those things. But he would lean more towards – direct, straight-forward, tense, and <em>impossibly</em> stubborn.  </p><p>When the sun is out into the horizon, he goes back inside his room, only to walk back out with his car keys and phone in hand. He doesn’t overthink his actions – even though he knows they’re strange, deep,<em> deep</em> down. </p><p>Which is how he finds himself at your house, 20 minutes later, standing at your doorstep, ringing your bell. Never mind the early hour. He doesn’t really expect an answer, and he’s ready to head back to his car but a loud raucous noise behind the door makes him stop. </p><p>There’s the sound of something falling to the floor, shattering. Followed by a flurry of curse words. Then he hears your voice, slurred and loud. </p><p>“I’m coming! Wait –<em> fuck! </em>”  </p><p>Some other noise that he can’t make out – like someone running into something and then – </p><p>You throw the door open, wearing nothing but a beige slip dress reaching just above your knees – looking more like an undergarment with its spaghetti straps, than a summer dress. </p><p>“Hey-” </p><p>“Agent Hotchner!” You call aloud, and you grip his arm pulling him inside your house. He’s too shocked to protest. He’d been expecting a door shut to the face, or even curse words yelled at him. </p><p>“I’m<em> sooo</em> glad you’re here”  </p><p>And that’s how he notices the wine bottle in your right hand. Then the unruly hair over your head – and that you’re missing a slipper, your left foot bare as you walk down the hall, saying nothing more to him. He follows you wordlessly as you head to the kitchen. He gets too close for comfort when he sees the way your feet wobble, and the swinging you do of the bottle – ready to hoist you up if you’re to fall. </p><p>“Would you want some spaghetti?” </p><p>Hotch shakes his head, “It’s 5.30 am”  </p><p> “Oh?” You walk on unsteady feet to the glass windows of your kitchen, looking out for proof of a sunrise. Instead of looking up the time on the clock hanging on the wall. </p><p>“Oh - it really is morning.<em> Fuck it </em>” </p><p>You take another sip straight from the bottle. </p><p>“Are you drunk?” It’s a rhetorical question – he sees you are, not only from the state of you. But from the mess around the kitchen. There’s flour, butter, milk, chocolate bars spread over on the counter – and a tray of cookies. His focus switches to the stove – turning it off at once. <em>God, had you been drunk-baking cookies? </em> </p><p>He takes the wine bottle off your hands, and you let out a whine of protest. Your hands slap his chest, saddened for being cut off. </p><p>“Hey! That was my bottle!” </p><p>You reach over for it, but Hotch holds it behind his back. Your arms circle around him in an effort to take it, completely unaware of the way your body presses flush to his. </p><p>You stink of alcohol – he can smell it on your clothes and even hair (how is that even possible?) but he still almost falters just from having you so close. You give up soon enough, frowning at him as you take a step back. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, Agent Hotchner” </p><p>Hotch chuckles – not from your reaction but from his own. A twisted part of him is glad to hear you say <em>agent</em> again for no other reason other than it means you’re not holding grudges against him. Not deep ones at least. </p><p>“How long have you been drinking?” he asks. <em>How much</em> would be a more fitting question. </p><p>You pause, stopping to think it over – eyes blinking often, and lasting longer every time you shut them. It takes more than a few minutes for you to calculate the exact amount of time. </p><p>“Since the firing range?” you offer, as if he can confirm it for you. </p><p>“You didn’t sleep?” </p><p>“Why would I-” you stretch your arms out to the sky, “-when my life is a <em>fucking adventure </em>every single day?” </p><p>Hotch grimaces. “You need to sleep this off.” </p><p>“No, I don’t,<em> agent </em> ” You bite your lip harshly, covering your mouth then with both hands, “I shouldn’t call you that. <em>Fuck</em>, I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to hate you.” </p><p>“Come on” he chooses to ignore your words, leaving the wine bottle over the kitchen island. He holds out a hand - “Let’s get you to bed” </p><p>You stare at his open palm, and he fears it’s going to take you the same amount of time it took with the last question. You take it, not even 20 seconds passing, and clasp both hands tightly around his. It’s how he leads you to the bedroom – not yours on the fourth floor, not when it takes you both too long to walk up the stairs in your state. But one in the first floor, where the BAU had stayed.</p><p>Coincidentally, it’s the one Hotch used to sleep in. </p><p>The bed is made up – in that same manner he’d left it. He moves towards it, wanting to take off the covers first – but your hands hold him still, not wanting to let him go. </p><p>“Wait here” he says softly and you nod reluctantly, clasping your hands together.</p><p>He pushes the cover and the decorative pillows neatly at the foot of the bed, and even fluffs the pillow. He holds out his hand again, motioning for you to come closer. This time you do so without waiting further convincing – sitting down over it first, jumping the tinniest bit up and down as if testing the sturdiness of the mattress.  </p><p>Hotch feels his job is done – and moves to the door. </p><p>“Can you stay?” </p><p>He freezes – looking back at you.</p><p><em>Did he imagine those words? </em> </p><p>“I can’t sleep” you say softly, looking down at the ground, “I can never seem to sleep right. Can you stay? Until I do?” </p><p>Hotch’s heart leaps to his throat – not only from your request but also from the gentleness in your tone. Words so softly pronounced; they make his entire brain fuzzy. </p><p>“Yes” he accepts without reservation, turning to the other side of the bed. He sits, then lays down, his head and shoulders resting over the headboard, hands intertwined together over his chest. </p><p>“Hold on-”you let out. Using the decorative pillows stacked at the foot of the bed, you make a barricade between his side of the bed and yours. He watches you in amusement and fascination. Even though drunk you’re still very lucid. </p><p>“I think I’ll combust if I touch you again” you mutter to yourself unconsciously, unwavering attention on the stacked pillows, as if they’re city fortifications and you’re a general. He can’t stifle the smile that appears on his lips at your drunk confession. </p><p>“Your side-” you point at him and the small space around, “Mine” you point to the other side of the pillow wall. </p><p>“Okay” he agrees. </p><p>You lay down on the bed, pulling over a sheet over your body, looking up at the ceiling of the room. </p><p>“I wonder what would have happened -” you mumble, closing your eyes, voice barely audible. “if I'd known you before I met Nathan” </p><p>Your sentence knocks the wind out of Hotch’s lungs – the same manner it would if he’d just slipped down the stairs and landed with his back on one step. When he hears your slowed-down breathing, the rise and fall of your chest as you finally doze off to sleep – he falls too, and fast. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You wake up acutely aware of the heat surrounding every inch of your body – pleasant and satisfying, almost lulling you back to sleep. For the first time in forever, you feel well-rested and calm. Even though, when you open your eyes to daylight – a searing pain shoots between your eyebrows, making your head heavy. </p><p><em> Fuck </em>– so, you’re hungover. <em>Great. </em> </p><p>You squeeze your eyes shut, dropping your head again on the pillow below.  </p><p>A pillow that can move and apparently breathe in and out deeply. Your eyes jolt open again – </p><p>Hotch is sleeping by your side. Well, <em>technically </em>below you, as you’re sprawled over him – head over his chest, arm wrapped tight around his waist, a leg obscenely looped around one of his. At some point in your sleep you’ve bypassed your –<em> right, pillow fort! </em>– and searched for his body heat. And he’s pleasantly warm as a lit stove, so you can’t really blame yourself for it. Especially because he also smells heavenly – like sandalwood and jasmine shampoo. </p><p>You breathe in deeply, accepting the fate that you’re unable to do anything else. Not when his arm is securely latched around you, large palm resting over your lower stomach – spreading heat and electricity everywhere else over your body. </p><p>You can’t and don't want to move away – not without waking him. So you stand still, looking up at him soundlessly sleeping. The worry lines he always sports – over his forehead and between his eyebrows have disappeared without a trace.</p><p>His expression is soft, his breathing loud and deep – and he’s <em>handsome</em>. It’s the only unfiltered and shameless thought you permit yourself. He’s still an agent, still law enforcement – and you’re<em> you</em>. But he <em>is</em> handsome. </p><p>There’s a low grumble originating from his chest, vibrations of which you also feel transmit to yours – and then his eyes slowly open. He blinks a few times, then brings his free hand to rub the sleep away. Then he registers you – awake and unmoving over him. You think you imagine the breath of relief he lets out – and the softness in his gaze as he takes you in.  </p><p>“Hi” he whispers in his morning gravelly voice – his tone a pitch lower than normal and you bite your lip. You feel already riled up just from him greeting you –<em> fuck. </em> </p><p>“Hey-“ you mumble, “Please don’t speak louder – hangover”  </p><p>He grants you a small smile, “Do you remember last night?” </p><p>You do – very faintly. You’d made it back home in one piece, feeling put together. Then without the BAU around, your house started feeling like a prison again. It’s what lead you to have a minor breakdown – searching for peace down bottles of liquor. <em>Several </em> bottles. And you remember deadening the thoughts racing through your mind with alcohol – not caring about the time. You recall what had first felt like a fever dream – Hotch showing up at your house, leading you to bed. </p><p><em> Just to</em><em> sleep </em>– apparently.  </p><p>“Yes” you mumble, “I had a party for one apparently” </p><p>“It looked to be very successful” he teases.</p><p>His arm around your waist squeezes you closer, his hand over your belly stretching open, covering the entirety of your navel. It makes your eyes flutter closed, unable to withhold the involuntary reactions from his touch. Your mind already replaying the last effects his hands had left on you.</p><p>Soft noises escape your throat.</p><p>“Mhmm,”</p><p>And you hope he thinks it’s because you’re still drowsy with sleep, “I think I also baked a cake – to celebrate” </p><p>“Cookies” he corrects. “Chocolate chip cookies” </p><p>“Of course,” you force your eyes open, looking up at him. “When else is there a better moment to make cookies but when you’re drunk out of your mind?” </p><p>“I think you were still very lucid” he lets out.  </p><p>His words leave you with a sliver of doubt – <em>oh God</em>, what did you tell him? Did you happen to talk about Nathan? That night? Maria? He notes the wave of panic in your features and cocks an eyebrow – in that self-assured, quiet confident way of his that makes him irresistibly attractive. </p><p>“The pillow fort” he reminds you. “You broke your own rules and invaded my territory” He tilts his head to the side, to point behind you, to where the pillows are probably discarded or kicked away.</p><p>Yet you can’t bother to move, not when you’re enjoying a bit too much the rumbling of his words over his chest, and his morning voice. You just want him to speak forever – no matter about what. </p><p>“It was a test” you breathe out. The discussion you had in the firing range is erased from your mind completely. As is every other meaningless discussion. Everything apart that night at the hotel room.  </p><p>“For the durability of the fort – it failed, as you can see” You trace your hand around his waist slowly upwards, feeling the toned muscles over his stomach with your palm, hidden by his shirt. He doesn’t move either, his gaze intent on yours.  </p><p>Then remembering the stench of alcohol that’s surely leaving your throat, you move the hand from his waist to cover your mouth at once. He watches you with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, dimples appearing at the sides of his lips. </p><p>“My breath – sorry” </p><p>He ignores your words completely as he reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. It’s the lightest of touch – something he’s carefully doing too – and yet you’re lit aflame.  </p><p>Then his hand drops down, grazing your shoulder. He plucks with a finger and thumb one of the straps of your dress that is hanging dangerously low, almost slipping off your shoulder, almost revealing something he longs to see – and he pulls it back to its place. He doesn’t move his hand away at once. But lets it linger a few seconds more, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, that’s too much – and still<em> too little</em>. You internally groan. Your eyes go to his lips – mouth so close to yours it wouldn’t take much effort to lean over and just...  </p><p>You remember then – your bare leg, exposed from the dress because of sleep, between his legs, and you detach from his body like an octopus.  </p><p>“I need a shower-“ </p><p>“I’ll make coffee-” </p><p>You both shoot up at the same time – parting from one another. You stand up too fast and too suddenly that it makes you dizzy at first. You expect to see your wedding portrait hanging in the wall in front of the bed – but it’s not. It’s not your bedroom but one of the guest rooms you’d given to the BAU.  </p><p><em> Is this one his? Had he taken you to his bedroom? </em> </p><p>You get to your bedroom in a trance, washing your teeth and showering with a speed not yet recognizable to man. Your head is heavy – which still makes your movements painful. But you manage to make yourself presentable – the heat his touch had left still not died down.  </p><p>You find Hotch making coffee in the kitchen –  </p><p>The place is messy to say the least. There’s a pack of flour semi-open over the kitchen island, a bottle of milk, an opened pack of chocolate bars– melted already. And a lot of wine bottles, as well as a pack of cigarettes over the dining table.</p><p>That must have been your dinner last night because your stomach rumbles from hunger. You spot the tray of cookies he’d mentioned, letting out a laugh, and grabbing one. At least, drunk you was smart enough to leave you breakfast. </p><p>You take a bite and spit it out in your hands -  </p><p>The weird cough that escapes you catches Hotch’s attention. </p><p>“Bad?” he asks. </p><p>You shake your head, gathering all the cookies and dropping them to the trash bin next to the door. “They’re salty – I should never bake while drunk” </p><p>He chuckles, and holds out a cup of coffee for you but when you reach out to take it, he shakes his head.  </p><p>“Water first – then maybe I’ll let you have some coffee” </p><p>“Let me? This is<em> my house.</em> And I don’t need water, I need food.” </p><p>He stares you down, as if challenging you to contradict him. And you would – if he didn’t look so good doing that. You feign defeat as you pluck a small water bottle from the fridge and down it all. He’d been right of course, and the water does help make you feel more like a human. </p><p>You turn his way when you hear the clanking noises he’s making – Hotch takes out a cast-iron skillet he finds in a drawer and puts it over the stove. You watch him with furrowed eyebrows – what is he...? </p><p>“I make a mean omelet” he says when he catches you staring. You’re at a loss for words – he's making you breakfast?<em> Unprompted? </em>  </p><p>“I’d need eggs, of course” Hotch holds out an open palm, motioning for you to get him one.</p><p>You blink at him before opening the fridge again and taking out 4 eggs. You walk over to him, wondering if you’re still dreaming or if you’ve been tossed into a parallel universe where you don’t have your baggage and he is not a divorcee who works as a law enforcement agent. You take out a bowl and a whisk from a drawer nearby and place them in the counter next to the stove. From up close you can spot the wrinkles in his button-down from sleeping with it on, as he whisks the eggs together with few tablespoons of water. He’s focused in the task at hand while your mind is racing. </p><p>He’s supposed to be <em>somewhere else</em> – at work, at a motel maybe? Or even back with his team at a dinner to eat together like they seem to always do? And yet, he’s here in your kitchen, casually making an omelet after he tucked you into bed?</p><p>A wave of something swells in your chest, so sudden and big – it makes your lungs feel small in comparison, unable to keep it inside you.  </p><p>He pours a tablespoon of olive oil over the skillet and you grip his wrist stopping him before he turns on the heat of the stove. </p><p>“I’ll get you a t-shirt” you say, “so you don’t stink of eggs.” </p><p>He nods, and you let go. When you return with a t-shirt – a large black <em>I love Seattle</em> t-shirt Therese had gifted you as a joke when you’d told her your project was going to become real – you find him near the glass doors and looking out to the back garden.  </p><p>“Here” you hold out the t-shirt. He holds it out, throwing you a questioning look when he reads the text.  </p><p>“Don’t ask” you instruct. But you explain either way, half-worried he’ll think it’s one of Nathan’s shirts.  </p><p>You expect him to move away, or try and get some privacy before he starts to change, but he doesn’t. He throws the garment over one shoulder and starts unbuttoning his shirt.  </p><p>You probably should be the one to move away and give him that semblance of privacy but your feet are planted on the ground – watching him with that same fascination that overtook you when he was undressing in the hotel room.  </p><p>Hotch strips off, draping his button-down carefully over the back of a chair. You’re too caught by him, by his tall figure and his torso – remembering the feeling of him under you as you slept. He looks up then, pausing when he notes your reaction. He reads something in your eyes, because he takes a tentative step closer. You don’t move away, not repeating that same mistake you’d made in the firing rage.</p><p>He pushes a wet strand of hair away from your face, hand turning so his knuckles brush softly against your cheek, tracing slowly your jawline, and stopping under your chin. His thumb trails over your lower lip – your mouth parting open at the intensity of his gaze, and the unwavering attention he regards you with. You’re breathless, anticipation and desire blooming inside you like sudden spring after a long winter. </p><p>But he hesitates, something else worrying his mind. </p><p>“I’m sorry about the night at the hotel-“ he starts and you exhale, surprised by his apology. “I shouldn’t have-“ </p><p>“I don’t regret it” you interject, predicting what he’s going to say. That maybe you were drunk, not thinking and even regretful. </p><p>He nods, his thumb brushing down to your chin, gaze fixated on your mouth. He meets your eyes again – </p><p>“I shouldn’t have dropped you off without saying something” </p><p>His words are sincere, and you want to give them the attention they deserve – but your belly is overtaken by fluttering butterflies.  </p><p>“I never leave without giving–“ </p><p>“Without giving thanks?” you joke, wanting to break some of his intensity. The tension building up between the two of you is increasing your anticipation tenfold – and your impatience. </p><p>He shakes his head slowly, “-<em>aftercare</em>.” </p><p>His words light up the flames inside you like pouring fuel over a campfire. His last word is a silent promise, which makes you almost want to plead again – for him to kiss you, touch you.  </p><p>Hotch moves in closer, but he doesn’t kiss you yet – hesitating for some other reason you cannot fathom. So, you urge him to – gripping his arm by the elbow, pulling it flush to your chest, his hand still cupping your chin with tenderness. He tilts your chin up as he bends down and finally, after what feels like a million years have passed – he kisses you lightly. The unexpected softness makes your eyes flutter shut and renders you momentarily breathless. He draws back, his warm breath fanning over your lips, making you shudder in pleasure. </p><p>His breathing is loud and deep and you reach blindly for him, gathering the material of his shirt in your fist and pulling him closer. Your other hand trails upward latching into his wrist. It’s the tinniest squeeze and he understands the cue –  </p><p><em> Yet</em>, instead of kissing you again, he leans down, his mouth suddenly on your neck, planting a gentle kiss. It carves a moan out of your throat as he continues downward - trailing wet kisses below your jawline, his hand on your chin craning your neck.</p><p>He’s slow – deliberately trying to torture you again. It’s frustrating and unnerving as much as it is efficient in expanding the heat pooling at the end of your belly. You grip his arm and waist for dear life, pressing him as close to you as possible as his free hand circles the nape of your neck. Your urgency makes him smile over your skin, teeth scraping against it drawing out shivers. </p><p>Even though your hangover headache continues, your body deliriously ignores it – focusing instead on the feeling of his lips and tongue lavishing the spot between your neck and shoulder.  </p><p>“<em>Fuck-“ </em>you let out breathily, “<em>right there- </em>“ </p><p>And he’s compliant – sucking and nipping on that sweet spot with diligence as moans and whimpers leave your mouth.</p><p>Then - </p><p>He chuckles over your skin, coming back up to look at you,  </p><p>“...are you hungry?” </p><p>You look at him  – </p><p>“Uh,“ unsure if this is an attempt at dirty-talking or what, as he goes back to kissing your neck and collarbones, “what?” </p><p>Hotch laughs again, the vibration of it over your skin, shooting a jolt of electricity down to your toes – and making your head throb again. His hand travels up your side, thumb moving to the front, right below you breast – and you suck in a breath. </p><p>“...your stomach is rumbling” he informs you, straightening up.  </p><p>“No it’s <em>not</em> –“ </p><p>And then you hear it – resembling faintly like whale sounds and making you flush from embarrassment.</p><p><em>Fuck </em>– out of all times, your stomach chooses <em>this moment. </em> </p><p>You expect him to laugh again but he tugs you close by cupping the sides of your face – leaving a peck over your lips. </p><p>“It’s okay” he says over your lips, “I’ll make you something to eat, <em>first </em>” He lets you go, taking a step back. </p><p>And you take that as another promise that winds you up even more. You’re not ready to part yet so you hook your hands to the waistband of his pants, even with the distance between you two. It’s stubbornness and impatience – because it's already happened once in that hotel room, and you don’t want it to happen again.  </p><p>You hook your thumbs in his belt loops, refusing to let him go. “Now... Don’t you want <em>this</em> now?”  </p><p>A flash of something passes behind his eyes –  </p><p>“I want <em>you</em> -” He loops an arm around your waist, pressing your hips to his without warning – a small whimper escaping you in surprise, “-<em>so bad” </em> </p><p>The low rumble of his husky voice makes your knees almost buckle; the butterflies in your belly being replaced at once with plain heat. </p><p>“But I don’t want you<em> distracted</em>.” </p><p>And before you can barely register or reply he lets you go again, turning to finally put on the t-shirt. It takes you a minute to gather yourself, but it’s for naught because your skin burns hot. And you need another shower.  </p><p>“I’m going to go to the bathroom...“ you bite your tongue, before you explain more than necessary.</p><p>Hotch nods with a small knowing smile. He turns the stove on, pouring the eggs over the pan.  </p><p>“Do you have hot sauce?” He shoots back before you can make it out of the kitchen.  </p><p>“Yes - the small drawer over the fridge” </p><p>You leave the room, the feeling that you’ve forgotten something utterly important clouding your head. But what it could be when you’ve been inside the house all night?  – you wonder, as you make it into the bathroom. Your reflection in the mirror just increases that feeling -  </p><p>You’d been drinking ever since you returned from the firing range and you’d been thinking about Nathan and the Andersons; about your last fight with him; about that night; about Maria and her going to prison; about her last words to you – saying that they were all the same, all like him - </p><p>And you’d thought about all the men she’d targeted and about the photo - </p><p>Realization hits you – <em>that fucking photo you found in his office.  </em> </p><p>You throw the door open – letting it hit the wall behind as you storm out. </p><p>That same photo you’d taken out from under your mattress and had obsessed over while drinking – only to stick it back into a random drawer because you couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. </p><p>That same drawer where the hot sauce is - </p><p>You finally get to the kitchen but it’s<em> too late –  </em>the entire space smelling of burned eggs. </p><p>“Hotch-” </p><p>He’s holding the photo with a hand and when he looks at you – that same way he had the first time you met, like you’re<em> pure evil –  </em>it makes you falter and break. </p><p>“I can explain” you croak out. “I really can-” </p><p>The scowl is deep on his face, “<em>You can explain</em> why a photo of dead and missing men is in your kitchen drawer?” </p><p>You wince, “They’re not<em> all </em>dead” </p><p>It’s the wrong thing to say – you see it in his eyes.  </p><p>“No, because we caught Maria before she could kill them all – or before <em>you could </em>” </p><p>His direct accusation flips a switch in you too – rage at being misunderstood, of him going hot and cold on you so quickly. </p><p>“Give me a fucking break – just because I have that photo it means nothing! You know I didn’t kill them.” </p><p>“There’s only 3 men in here that are not dead.” He retorts. “Is that what Maria was hinting at you -” </p><p><em> Hinting? </em>  </p><p>“- some sort of <em>signal</em> for you to finish the job?” </p><p>You scoff – and to think you were kissing him just a minute ago. </p><p>“<em>Jesus fucking Christ, </em> Hotch. Aren't you the fucking best? First you kiss me, then you want to fuck me and the next moment you think I’m an evil mastermind. You’re giving me whiplash for god’s sake! At least give me the benefit of the doubt?” </p><p>He narrows the distance,  </p><p><em>"That</em> was a mistake -” </p><p>You let out a huff – he's quick to even flip the context, like his words from before meant nothing. Like he hadn’t uttered them himself. </p><p>“<em>A mistake</em>?” you repeat, voice higher even through the resounding headache, “Sure, seems like we keep repeating it a bit <em>too much and too willingly</em>, don’t you think?” </p><p>“Answer my question -” Hotch starts, the vein in his neck throbbing with anger, “why was this photo hidden in your drawer?” </p><p>You pause – because would he even believe you at this point? The godawful chance of finding the photo stacked inside Nathan’s desk only a few days ago? Would it even be worth the explanation – if he’s going to treat you just the same and continue with his accusation? </p><p>You’re too drained to fight him but even too drained to give up. Had this happened days ago, before he’d kissed you and had you scream his name, you wouldn’t have bothered. But you find yourself talking without a clear plan.</p><p>“I found it when I saw the news over Alex Black in my husband’s office desk” Your voice is calmer, softer than before and it catches him by surprise. “I’ve never met all those men. I haven’t been in the house or in that office ever since the police turned my house upside down to search for him – courtesy of Lucille Anderson” </p><p>The smell of burning food wafts through the kitchen, but none of you mind it. </p><p>“You can find the reports of what they found in the police records. I didn’t tell you about the photo because you still believed I was the serial killer and you would have sent me to prison otherwise.” </p><p>He knows that last part to be true, and his gaze is unwavering as he waits for something to slip from your face – some sort of hint that you’re lying or hiding something. </p><p>“Did Maria have access to that office when she was living here?” </p><p>You flinch, because you know what he’s thinking already, “Yes”</p><p>That she found the photo, and that’s how she’s been targeting those men, not solely through Brook’s or some kind of maltreatment they’d done to her – but<em> through your husband</em>. </p><p>Hotch gives you the smallest nod, his breathing going back to normal. He goes back to the stove to turn it off, moving the skillet to the sink. His silence makes you uncomfortable – and you’re too aware of the fact something has been broken.</p><p>You still want to fix it. </p><p>“Hotch -” you mumble, “I’m sorry -” </p><p>“We are heading back to Virginia” he says coldly, “Today” </p><p>Your heart drops to your stomach –<em> so he leaves just like this? Was he ever planning to tell you?  </em></p><p>Your voice is meek, too broken to steel it from him. </p><p><em> “ </em>My father is still out there -” </p><p>“For all we know he’s in Missouri-”  </p><p>He doesn’t even look at you, his gaze fixed in the photo in his hands. You grip his arms, turning him to you with force. </p><p>“You’re leaving because he hasn’t killed anyone yet – is that it? Because you need some kind of proof that he’s here first, right?” </p><p>“If we are not invited by the police department, we have no jurisdiction.” </p><p>The answer he gives you is clinical, like day and night the contrast with the way your voice fluctuates with emotion. </p><p>“Fuck your jurisdiction!” you snap, “You’re waiting for girls to die again. <em>For me</em> – to die.” </p><p>“Don’t say that-” </p><p>You spit out the next words in his face, your anger mixing with the fear of potentially running into your father again – the man you’d sent to prison. </p><p>“Fuck you, Hotch.” </p><p>He takes a step back as if you’d slapped him across the face. </p><p>“I’ll appoint a security detail at your door to keep you safe – from your father, from Lucille...” </p><p>“And to keep an eye on me, is that it? Because you still believe I killed my husband” </p><p>He chooses not to say anything but his answer is clear by his lack of a response. </p><p>“Okay” you breathe out, forcing yourself to calm down, letting him go “Thanks for being honest. Have a good<em> fucking </em>flight” </p><p>Hotch moves away, picking up his button-down from the chair and heading out. Hearing the loud thud of your front door closing, tears slowly roll down your eyes. </p><p>In the chaos of your kitchen, where you’d stabbed your husband in the knee and shoulder in order to wade him off Maria almost a year and a half ago – you find yourself alone again and more heartbroken. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading!!💕💕<br/>As always lemme know what you think!! Love y'all 💕💕</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Bad Apple</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After the BAU leaves Washington you have to go on with your normal life - until a friend reaches out to you for help.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey all!!💕💕<br/>Buckle up because there's a long one ahead! (with a whole-ass mini plot and everything!)</p><p>(and yes i wrote this at night like a gargoyle so if u see any weird grammar errors pls dont pay it any mind and take it with a grain of salt lmao)</p><p>in italics flashbacks!</p><p>(I leave you with a long one bcs it will take me a bit to write the next two and hopefully they will be worth it 👀)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> We are the same. </em> </p><p> </p><p>You look at your reflection in the mirror – with your black gown and black gloves you’re ready for tonight’s event. It’s out of pure necessity that you’re back to the social life of rich and elite people. It’s been two full weeks of attending galas, museum openings, exhibitions, operas, and everything else. </p><p>People have started talking to you differently, somehow knowing that you’re the heiress of the Anderson fortune – treating you the same they did Nathan. They’d seemingly forgotten Nathan’s disappearance, and his family’s insistence that you were the murderer – even the embezzlement lawsuit. Now, through casual events and even wedding invitations that you’d started receiving in the post – in their eyes, you’re officially an Anderson. More so than when you were married to Nathan. <em>Funny</em> how much money can buy.  </p><p>Another reasoning for your attendance to these events is <em>pure spite.</em> Lucille Anderson expects you to cower away and stick around your house every day. And she’d certainly called in the name of Clover, sent newsletters as well – something they apparently did with investors to keep them in the loop of their latest developments. She wanted to kill you? Then let her do it amidst the public, sitting in the audience of an opera, or at a gala.</p><p>Even in a movie premiere – <em>why not</em>? You are not about to make it easy for her. No, if she wants to do it with her own bare hands – it’s time she gets <em>creative </em>about it. The other thought-out reason was the crowd of paparazzi swarming these events. They’d made your life hell when you were dating Nathan and then married him. It had increased disproportionally once he’s disappeared. There’s no shying away from paparazzi and media this time.  </p><p>However, this is a three-fold endeavor. Because if there’s anything you know about the BAU is that they have an excellent technical analyst. And the more you appear on the media and internet searches – the more material Garcia had on you. And a part of you, the <em>desperate </em>one that had broken down when Hotch had left your house that day, wished for him to still be following you.  </p><p>It is<em> masochistic</em> of you – to want the man investigating you to still be on the lookout for you. </p><p>You wave a hand at the police car in front of your house, tasked with your security and hand them the coffee cups you’d prepared.  </p><p>“Where to, tonight?” George asks – he’s the oldest, grey hair and moustache – taking his cup. He’d showed you photos of his kids and grandkids those first few days when you were bored out of your mind in the house.  </p><p>“Let me guess –“ Mathilde shoots from the driver’s seat, “A charity gala?” She smiles in gratitude as she takes her latte.  </p><p>You laugh, “Yes.” </p><p>They’re quite kind people and tireless – even through it all. You wonder though, how much Hotch had told them about you - if they knew you could be a murderer too. </p><p>“Sorry for this –“ </p><p>They don’t reply but turn the car engine on, ready to trail behind you.  </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p><em> “So, when </em><em>can </em><em>I take you out?” </em> </p><p><em> You chuckle, </em><em>and completely ignore his question.  </em> </p><p><em> “You don’t look like you shop here” you motion at the simple </em> <em>  bio </em> <em>  grocery store,  </em> <em> not too far from Carol’s condo where you usually  </em> <em> shopped </em> <em>  for both of you. </em></p><p><em>Nathan Anderson – he’d told you his name by brandishing his business card. A move – obviously, trying to get you to see his title and profession. Maybe even associate him with someone important and notorious. You’d simple stared at the paper in his hand and moved on, not bothering to take it </em> <em>  that night at the gala.  </em> </p><p><em> “I do” he says, and you roll your eyes. “This is my </em><em>favorite </em><em>store in New York. In Seattle too. I sometimes fly over </em> <em>  right from my house to here – just because I know it’s the best place to get my-“ He picks up the first object in his right – which is a ripe avocado </em> <em> , “-avocados. I’m an avid avocado eater” </em> </p><p><em> You bite. “Really? How do you cook it?” </em> </p><p><em> The question catches him off guard.  </em> </p><p><em> “I, uh, boil it. Make it into a soup, obviously. Few people know how to properly make that.” </em> </p><p><em> You laugh again, “Obviously” Pushing the cart away from the fresh fruits and vegetables  </em> <em> aisle  </em> <em> you steer towards grains. </em> </p><p><em> “Look-” he continues, and you notice he’s still following. You’d have Therese and her friends to blame for dragging you to that concert in June, because he’d been there too – part of Therese’s strange group of friends. “That night at the concert... it was... great. Is it that awful of me to suggest a continuation?” </em> </p><p><em> You throw him a look over your shoulders. </em> </p><p><em> “Continuation?” you’re simply repeating his words now, just to annoy him.  </em> </p><p><em> He moves to the front of the cart, physically making you stop.  </em> </p><p><em> “Yes.” he says confidently, “I’ve never made out with someone and felt sparks like that -” </em> </p><p><em> You cock an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. </em> </p><p><em> “Sparks? We were on ecstasy. You’d felt sparks kissing a dog.” </em> </p><p><em> “That’s not all that was – and I know you felt the same” he points a finger at you and you almost laugh in his face. Because yes, it had been nice to make out with someone new and random at a concert while music was playing – but you wouldn’t have called it sparks per se. </em> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m not looking for anything serious” he says. </em>
</p><p><em>You actually laugh aloud this time. </em> </p><p><em> “Sorry, weren’t you just asking me out a minute ago? This is not how you convince someone to date you. Just so you know, in the future.”  </em> </p><p><em> He shakes his head. “No - but I think </em>we are the same<em>.” He moves in closer, stopping at your side. </em> </p><p><em> “You didn’t kiss the guy next to your friend Tia -” </em> </p><p><em> “Therese” you correct and he waves a hand like swatting the word away. </em> </p><p><em> “You didn’t kiss him – even though he’d been eyeing you all night, getting you drinks and food. He was nice and good-looking, obviously.” He’s got a cocky smile in his face. “Because you knew that if you did he wouldn’t consider it a one-time thing.” </em> </p><p><em> “I thought the same about you” you rebut, a bit irked that you’d thought that exact thing over Arlo – Therese’s friend. “That you’d keep it at one-time" </em> </p><p><em> “So, I’m right. You’re not looking for a relationship and I’m not either. </em>We are the same.<em>” </em> </p><p><em> You huff out, because even through it all – even though Therese had disapproved you going for him and not for her friend, and the clear differences between the two of you – you still found the idea of him compelling. </em> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>“You’re a wine-person now?”  </p><p>You turn around just to finish the glass of wine in front of his face instead of answering, placing it back over the counter. </p><p>Roger laughs, “Fair enough.”  </p><p>Of course, attending these events meant that you’d run into people you didn’t want to –<em> including Roger. </em>  </p><p>“I’ve seen you haven’t made a decision yet on Clover.” He leans closer to the counter, an empty glass of scotch in his hand – a minute ago he was parading around his with wife, talking pleasantries with the others. </p><p>“Yes” you reply, “I’m considering my options”  </p><p>He turns to the bartender, handing him a 20 as the man refills his glass. “What options?” </p><p>“Whether I can piss off Lucille longer or not” you retort, “For the moment I’m leaning towards <em>longer.</em>” </p><p>He takes a sip from his glass, following as you make your leave from the bar. Lucille Anderson is on the other side of the room surrounded by several people, chatting and sipping their drinks. You’d noted her as soon as you’d arrived.</p><p>She’d been the first to greet you – she has to keep appearances, after all, not letting others know that she’s displeased with the will. She glances at you for a brief second then goes back to the discussion. </p><p> “I wasn’t lying when I said I’m penniless.” </p><p>You halt, “Then how are you tipping bartenders, Roger? How are you driving around in your stupid car?” </p><p>He looks around, noting first who’s potentially within earshot, “Those are the property of your dear mother-in-law. I do... certain things for her and she lets me float.” </p><p>You put a hand over your hip, “For Clover?” </p><p>“For my future” he says, “That idea of hers is going to make us all rich.” </p><p>You scoff – of course he’d be the type to trust completely without first stopping to think what other people’s intentions are.  </p><p>“Yes, because Lucille Anderson has such a charitable spirit” You roll your eyes. “Goodnight, Roger.” </p><p>He doesn’t step away, blocking your way out. “I can help you with her – tell her you mean nothing wrong...” </p><p>You frown – this man never stops butting into other people’s business. “Roger, I don’t need you to do anything for me,<em> understood</em>?” </p><p>He doesn’t budge, his expression changing into a serious one, “You shouldn’t underestimate her. She’s more powerful than you think.” He waits for the severity of his words to sink in, then moves out of your way. </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>It’s a bit before midnight when you get home, Roger’s words for some reason still bouncing around in your head. Maybe you should stop drinking at these events too. It wouldn’t be like Lucille but maybe she might just switch to poisoning if she finds it too hard to deal with you.  </p><p>You turn the lights on as you walk in – freezing in place when you see the kitchen light already on. There’s a split-second feeling of panic taking over you before your mind reels in and you take out the pocket-knife you’d hidden inside your small purse.</p><p>You slip off the heels, in order to be stealthier and surprise your home invader before they surprise you. Walking in barefoot and in your tiptoes, you enter the kitchen. There's no other light on but the fridge light that is open – feet peeking out from under the door. And they’re Louboutin heels. </p><p>You switch on the light, already annoyed and call her name - </p><p>“Therese”  </p><p>She jumps up, and a pack of mozzarella sticks drops from her hands to the ground. </p><p>“Jesus-” she closes the door, turning to you. “You scared me!” </p><p>You drop the purse over the counter, together with the knife, and walk to her. </p><p>“You never call – why don’t you ever call before you break in?” </p><p>She gives you an innocent smile, “I lost your number?” </p><p>You roll your eyes, “How did you lose my number when you called me just 1 week ago?” </p><p>She shrugs, “My phone, then?” </p><p>“Therese -” you warn. You’re literally being stalked by Lucille and probably your father, and there’s a police car outside too. “How did you bypass my home alarm?” </p><p>“I guessed it would your mother’s birthday and I was right”  </p><p>You huff out, putting a hand to your forehead feeling a headache nearing – and some of it is paranoia over drinking wine after thinking about Lucille poisoning you. You resign yourself to this small event because maybe having someone else around the house is a good thing.</p><p>Giving your attention fully to your friend, you notice at last the worry in her eyes, and she’s started chewing her nails again – she's doing it now as she watches you sit down over a kitchen stool. </p><p>“What are you doing here?” you ask. </p><p>“I need your help” she lets out, dropping to a seat next to yours. Her under eye circles are deeper than usual, and she looks thinner since the last time you’ve seen her. “Someone is killing the girls in the neighborhood.” </p><p>You reach a hand out for comfort and she takes it. “What do you mean?” </p><p>“Sex workers -” she says, voice tinted with fear, “They’ve been disappearing with no explanation – the first I heard was Naomi – you remember her?” </p><p>You nod – she used to always come over to the bar and chat with you whenever she’d see you bored or frustrated. </p><p>“She said one of her friends got snatched off the streets – went with this guy in a van and never showed up the next day. She reported it to the police but nobody did anything.” </p><p>She squeezes your hand and you pull her closer to you, wanting to bring as much comfort to her as you can. </p><p>“It’s been three months since she disappeared -” </p><p>Tears fall from her eyes. </p><p>“And then another friend of a friend – two months ago. Leah’s friend went missing a month ago. And this month there’s been three more. <em>Three</em>. Do you know what that means?” She looks up at you, and it breaks your heart –  </p><p>“Someone is hunting them. Someone is cleaning the streets. I used to be work right in that area. That could have easily been me – I should be out there, helping them!” </p><p>You shake your head, “Therese, you can’t think like that. How are you going to help – you're just one person -” </p><p>“You know a man is doing this” she cuts you off, her voice getting higher, matching her rage. “Men always find new ways of torturing or killing us!” </p><p>You pull her in until she’s cocooned inside your arms, rubbing her back and smoothing down her hair as she cries over your shoulder. </p><p>“I came to you because you’re the only one who caught one of them – women killers...” </p><p>You swallow nothing, your throat tightening at her words.  </p><p>“And you always seem to scare men away... Please, will you help?” </p><p>You’ve learned to see the patterns now – you couldn’t help it. It didn’t take an expert to know that several women missing in a short span of time, having things in common with one another, in one area – meant a serial killer. Yet, you’re not sure how much you can help.</p><p>Not when you don’t know anything about catching them. But Therese is lost and scared. She’s travelled from far away only to seek your help – and you’d do anything for her. No matter how unreasonable or out of reach it is. </p><p>“Let’s fly to New York tomorrow” you say softly, “But let’s sleep tonight. Okay?” </p><p>She nods against your shoulder and you hold her until her crying stops.  </p><p>- </p><p>The police officers in charge of guarding your house take your urgent departure to New York in a mixture of ways. You offer to pay for their plane tickets and stay – just to not get them in trouble with their boss, and because you don’t mind the extra layer of security. After all, your father is still at large. In the end though, Seattle PD decides New York is not an immediate threat to your safety – no Lucille Anderson, and no actual facts to make them think Davis Finch is in another state. </p><p>So, it’s just you and Therese in the flight. She shows you pictures of her kids, and even the girls at the strip club. You tell her about Alex Black and even though you expect her to be a bit more relieved, she’s sad and quiet. It’s not until you’re driving at the strip club sometime in the morning, with a rental car, that you realize how fast your life has changed in the last year. Naomi, Lyla and a few more other girls all greet you with hugs and kisses. </p><p>“I know I’ve been bad at keeping in touch -”  </p><p>They all nod, agreeing at once. </p><p>“I did hope to make it better with gifts?” </p><p>Their demeanors change as you pull out your go-back, filled with nothing else but small trinkets – everything they’d all mentioned once or twice while you all worked together 2 years ago. It helps lighten the mood and bring their spirits up for a brief moment before Therese, Naomi and you head out to the corner of Richwood and Bushwick, where they’d said the women had started disappearing. They look at you with certain expectation and once you’re out, you decide to address it. </p><p>“Look, I don’t know what Therese said – but I’m not a police officer.” you pause, deciding to correct. “I’m not a <em>profiler </em>” </p><p>“What’s a profiler?” Naomi asks. “Is that like, better?” </p><p>“Yes” you reply with no hesitation. </p><p>It hits you then, suddenly just now arriving at the realization that serial killers or kidnappers meant the BAU would be here soon. The BAU and their unit chief. </p><p>“Uh... I think we should leave-” And you don’t feel at all prepared to meet him, not when you’d fantasized about him incessantly, like a mad person. </p><p>“What?” Therese asks, throwing you an angry look. “No. We have to talk to the them – they're <em>waiting </em>for you.” </p><p>You glare at her, “What? What do you mean<em> talk to me</em>, Therese? I’m no expert! What did you tell them?” </p><p>She’s probably blown this out of proportion too – lied to them or worse. </p><p>“Nothing” she backs away, retreating at your loud voice, “I told them you have experience-” </p><p>“Experience?!” you snarl, “Therese - why are you lying to them?” </p><p>Naomi looks between the two of you, more confused than you. “Uh... they’re waiting.” </p><p>You postpone the discussion with Therese at a later time, deciding to address instead the sex workers that are apparently waiting for you – as if you had any words of wisdom you can even offer them. They all wait for you at a local pub, empty at this time of day apart from you all. Naomi introduces you both, putting behind your name the title of a person who knows about safety - </p><p>“Hi” you wave a hand awkwardly, deciding to cut this pseudo-meeting short, “I don’t know how much I can offer you in terms of safety precautions you can take - I've truthfully never been in your line of work-” </p><p>A few people’s faces fall in disappointment. And you make a snap judgment because you can’t leave without giving them something, at least. You know that even if the police would be taking this matter seriously, or the BAU had been here giving these same instructions – they still would miss out on a few things. </p><p>“But you have phones – use them” You assert, sounding too much like a teacher, “Get apps – find your friends, GPS transmitters, even -” </p><p>“SafeCity” Therese interjects, shouting the name of your app. You throw her a glare and she shuts up, going back to her place. A few people start pulling out their phones. </p><p>“You need to start texting people when you’re in and out of work -” </p><p>You think back on the discussion you’d had with Agent Gideon on how your father used to hold the girls for a few hours before killing them - </p><p>“Every single time – just pick a buddy and text them. It takes a second to text but a few hours are all you need for The FBI to catch them-” </p><p>A woman mouths <em>The FBI  </em>to her friend and she shrugs in response. </p><p>“And-” you think over Agent Rossi’s words too, “ if someone gives you the creeps, then get the <em>fuck</em> out of there” </p><p>A few people laugh. One woman raises her hand – mocking you for speaking like you’re a professor in session. </p><p>“Every man gives me the creeps-” everyone nods, even Therese at your side, “- I’m not going to stop working because a man has <em>bad vibes</em>” </p><p>They all audibly agree – and you see the crowd quickly about to turn, understanding at once that you don’t really have that much to do with the matter at hand. </p><p>“Gut feeling then” you clarify, “We always form an impression over someone the first few seconds we meet them – and in those seconds we’ve already realized what kind of person they are. That’s our instinct. Since you’ve been doing this for a long time –<em> your</em> instinct is stronger. I’m only urging you to listen this time, and not push that gut feeling back down.” </p><p>Your somber tone of voice convinces them.  </p><p>“And if you lose a job this one time, well...” you look at Naomi, “get her to send me your names and I’ll pay” </p><p>They all laugh again.  </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p><em> “Marry me” he mutters from the side of his bed, a hand over your bare midriff but no other point of contact from the summer heat surrounding the apartment.  </em> </p><p><em> You peer at him over your shoulder, “What?” </em> </p><p><em> “Marry me” he says louder and you turn, a laugh already at your throat, threatening to escape, “I’m serious – I think we should get married” </em> </p><p><em> “You’re delirious” you let out with a chuckle, “we haven’t even been dating for that long.” </em> </p><p><em> “I know, and I never wanted to get married” he says,  </em> <em> moving </em> <em>  closer, “But  </em> we are the same<em> – I'm convinced so.” </em> </p><p><em> You laugh, swatting his hands away </em> <em>  when he reaches out for you. </em> <em>  “Nathan, shut up and go to sleep. You’re only feverish because of the temperature.” </em> </p><p><em> “We have so much in common, darling” he says, turning you around to face him, “you’re brilliant and -” he goes onto a flurry of compliments each one more ridiculous than the previous before he adds, “and you’ve witnessed dark things-” </em> </p><p><em> You grimace at that, hoping to God the fact your father is a serial killer isn’t close second to him calling you beautiful. He laughs then at your panicked expression, relieving some of that tension. </em> </p><p><em> “I’m simply saying that we are the same and I love you – why wait?” </em> </p><p><em> And a month later, first in a close group of friends at your elopement he repeats those same vows to you. Then later on at a large ceremony with all of his family and friends, you vow to one another again – to love each other through better or for worse. </em> </p><p><em> Because you’re the same. </em> </p><p>- </p><p> </p><p>You leave Therese back at the strip club as her shift is about to start. The drive back to the condo and the meeting give you an idea. It takes a few phone calls with your lawyers, accountants, and a few more people but you are mailed a contract many hours later.</p><p>They also promise to get in touch with a real estate agent in New York to find an appropriate building – but you already pour the money from the horse racing win into the project, urging them to work faster. </p><p>When Therese is back, she finds you sitting cross-legged in Carol’s old bedroom, surrounded by legal documents and papers. She’d taken her entire family at her sister’s old home for the weekend, so the rest of the condo is empty. </p><p>“Everything okay?” she asks, dumping her bag on the ground. </p><p>“Perfect” you grin wide at her, “I have a surprise for you.” </p><p>Her frown doesn’t leave her face, even as she sits down beside you. “What is it – you've got the crazy eyes. The last time you did you came up with -” </p><p>“-the app” you fill in for her, adrenaline running through your bloodstream after that last phone call announcing good news, “I know” </p><p>“So...?” </p><p>You push the photos of the property first towards her, “Remember when we talked about ways to improve our life? How we would make the world better?” </p><p>She nods, reluctantly picking up the photos and flipping through them. </p><p>“And you said you wanted to help people like you when you were doing sex work – who risked being homeless or starving and felt hopeless and alone. And marginalized.” </p><p>You push her the contract next, together with the agreement document.  </p><p>“Well, I funded this program-” she flips through the pages, reading slowly the text written in them, that you’re reciting, “-it will provide client-centered legal and social services to individuals who do sex work, regardless of whether they do so by choice, circumstance or coercion. It will assist even survivors of human trafficking. It’s going to help clients remain in stable housing, access safer working conditions, clear criminal records, fight hate crimes or police misconduct.” </p><p>She looks at you in surprise and confusion. </p><p>“It will run together with a homeless facility – so everyone who’s at risk doesn’t end up in the streets. It may even expand further in the future.” </p><p>“This has my name on it-” she mutters, “my name is on the contract” </p><p>“Yes” your grin grows wider, “because it was your idea – so you’re the owner.” </p><p>Therese stands up at once, dropping the papers on the ground. </p><p>“Therese -?” </p><p>“I don’t need your money” she cautions. “I’m not a charity case – first the house, now this?” </p><p>You stand up too, taken aback by her reaction. “I’m not saying you are. You’re my friend and I want to help. I want you to help realize your goals-” </p><p>“Just because I’m not as rich as you are - I still have my own ways to help-” she bellows, “I don’t need you to keep doing this to me.” </p><p>You reach out for her hand but she cowers way from your touch.  </p><p>“I’m not saying you don’t, Therese. I just thought it’s best if you own this project. It was your idea. I don’t mean anything else by it, I swear.” </p><p>She glares at you for a beat, before picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. </p><p>“Therese, please let’s talk about this. I don’t want to do something you don’t want me to – I just thought it would be ideal if you led and followed this-” </p><p>“I can’t talk right now” she spits the word out, “I’ll go check on my family first.” </p><p>“Therese -” </p><p>But she doesn’t wait for anything more – she walks out, door slamming shut behind her.  </p><p>It’s 1am when you’re woken up by a phone call from an unknown number. You pick up at once. </p><p>“Hello?” a man’s panicked voice calls out from the other side of the line, “This is Manuel.” </p><p>Therese’s husband -  </p><p>You sit up and look around the apartment – everything dark and quiet. A bad feeling surges up your stomach. </p><p>“I’m sorry I didn’t know who to call – she said she’ll sleep at your place tonight and that she would call to say goodnight to the kids but she never did -” You stand up at once, turning lights around the place as you go from one room to another.</p><p>But Therese is nowhere. She’s not here – and after the discussion about the program and her words in Seattle, <em> you already know where she is </em>. </p><p>“¨Please, tell me she’s there and her phone died -”he begs, his voice breaking. You take a deep breath, wanting to spare him your own emotions but you falter as well.  </p><p>“Manuel, she’s -” </p><p>But he gets it right away – a series of pleads leaving his mouth. </p><p>“Please, find her. Please...” </p><p>And when you hang up with a promise, your own heart breaking along the way, you call the first number you’ve memorized after that of Agent Gideon.  </p><p>He responds after only one ring. You’re scouring your brain for an explanation, an intro, something to begin this with but Hotch catches you by surprise, recognizing your phone number right away - </p><p>“What’s wrong?”  </p><p>“Are you in New York?” </p><p>“Yes” he answers without a beat, no shock or confusion over your question.</p><p>It’s a relief that you don’t have to say anything more. </p><p>“It’s my friend, Therese.” you sob, “she was out tonight, between Bushwick and Richwood – in an attempt to catch the murderer.”  </p><p>There’s ruffling on his side, and you think he might still be in the office or at work. </p><p>“She left 2 hours ago. Hotch,<em> please</em>,” you insist with your heart in the line, “whatever our differences – <em>please you have to</em> find her.” </p><p>There’s a moment when you think he’s going to hang up, call you insane, or even ask you why you’re even in the city, chasing another serial killer. But he does none of those things – and deep down you knew he would never. That’s just not the type of man he is. </p><p>“We will” he says matter-of-factly, in his reassuring tone as an agent. </p><p>“I promise you <em>I </em>  will do everything in <em>my </em> power” he adds.  </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p>You don’t wait around in the empty apartment – deciding instead to get dressed and drive directly to the police department where you know the BAU is surely stationed at, while working this case. They don’t let you in so you just hover outside the building, eyes and ears glued to the street, waiting to see black SUVs or police vehicles.</p><p>It’s almost 4am when you receive a call from Hotch, and you pick up holding your breath. </p><p>“She’s fine -” he says right away, and you exhale deeply, running towards your car “She’s at the hospital” He gives you the address as you turn on the ignition. </p><p>“A few minor bruises and cuts – she picked up quite a fight with the unsub and she was out before anything else happened-” </p><p>“<em>Fuck </em>” you breathe out, tears of joy and relief rolling down your cheeks as you steer the wheel with one hand and hold the phone with another. “Thank fuck” </p><p>Hotch doesn’t hang up. You still hear his quiet breathing, and your relief over Therese being alive and well is mixed with another emotion – one you’d tried very desperately to deafen. </p><p>“Hotch-” you start, voice shaking as you make a turn right, “I’m<em> so- </em>” </p><p>What the<em> fuck</em> are you supposed to say<em> – that you’re grateful he’s doing his job? That he’s a nice, good agent – ten out of ten in the charts?  </em> </p><p>And maybe you are crazy – his absence has <em>definitely</em> rendered you crazy because you end up saying the inanest thing. </p><p>“<em>I've missed you </em>” </p><p>There’s a sharp intake of breath from his side, as you hear him close a door. You wait, holding your breath again, even as you drive carelessly through the streets of New York to get to Therese and witness with your own eyes that she’s alive. Because it’s been two weeks – and even though he probably hates your guts, he has to feel <em>some way </em>  at least.<em> He has to</em>. </p><p>“We’ll be here” he says in his serious tone, “She’s refusing to give a statement” </p><p>You’re more than disappointed but you shake it off quickly, understanding what he’s asking you without explicitly doing so. </p><p>“Okay. I’ll talk her into it” you inform him.  </p><p>“I’ll see you when I get here” </p><p>“Okay, bye-” But he’s already hung up. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>You sprint through the halls of the hospital, shouting at the reception desk and the nurses until they give you Therese’s room number. And when you reach it, you bypass the crowd of police officers and agents outside her room as you barge inside. </p><p>Therese’s lying in bed, eyes closed and bandages cover her right cheek and collarbones, and she has a cast on her left arm. Hotch had been a <em>bastard liar</em> because these aren’t a few cuts and bruises. And why is she in a hospital bed - </p><p>“You’re so goddamn loud” she says, her eyes still closed. </p><p>You blink at her - </p><p>She opens her eyes, granting you a small smile. “I’m here trying to sleep, and I heard your screeching voice from the entrance.<em> Jesus</em>, keep it down” </p><p>The pent-up panic and relief all mix together as a laugh bubbles out of your throat, loud and horrible. </p><p>“<em>You fucking bitch </em> ” you near her, words wanting to sound mean and reprimanding but coming out gentle, “you’re <em>so</em> goddamn stupid” </p><p>She grins and stretches out her fingers and you take her hand in yours, sitting down by her side.  </p><p>“What were you thinking, Therese? That you could be Batman for the night?” </p><p>She shakes her head, leaning over to grin at you mischievously, “I saw his face” </p><p>“You – <em>what</em>?” </p><p>Her voice falls into a whisper, “I spotted his van first, this old piece of junk that could barely function and he picked me up. He tried to threaten me with a knife but I wrestled him out of it. He managed a few jabs but I escaped. I don’t think I will ever be able to go back to work looking like this. I’m going to have to look for other <em>job opportunities</em>-” </p><p>She looks at you expectantly and you nod, understanding the implication of her words. </p><p>“The program is yours, Therese. It’s got your name and everything” </p><p>“Thank you” she mumbles softly. “And god you were right though – I got that gut feeling right away-” </p><p>“Therese, why aren’t you saying all of this to the people outside?” </p><p>Her smile flips into a grimace, “They don’t respect sex workers – I heard one guy say it’s good I escaped with only this and should have expected more.” </p><p>“The agents? <em>They </em>said that to you?” your voice is a pitch higher at your question. </p><p>She throws you a strange look. “No. The police officers did. The FBI agents asked me a bunch of random questions. They even mentioned some kind of interview that’s supposed to make me remember every single detail of the man-” </p><p>Your frustration and impatience get to you again, interrupting her, “Then why aren’t you saying something? Therese, they’re the ones who can catch that<em> fucker</em>! You don’t have a fucking badge or a gun-” </p><p>Her strange look is back on her face, “Because they knew<em> you</em>”  </p><p>You pause, “What? What does that have to do with anything?” </p><p>“Weren’t they investigating you for those murders? They’re clearly biased and bad at their jobs” </p><p><em> Jesus Christ – you're going to get a headache, even though she’s being weirdly considerate. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> Therese” you say her name loudly, and with a bite, “They’re not bad at their job – they're <em>excellent</em> at it. It’s how they caught that serial killer. Doubting people is just what they do.” </p><p>She doesn’t look convinced though so you’re meaner with the next words. </p><p>“If you don’t tell them – this<em> fucker</em> flees and goes back to killing others. Is <em>that</em> what you want?” </p><p>Therese ponders on it, debating whether to argue with you or not but decides against it. </p><p>“Fine.” she mutters through her teeth, “I’ll talk to them.” </p><p>“Now” you insist, and she rolls her eyes. </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em> - okay, you may call them in.” </p><p>You’re triumphant as you go outside, leaving the door open, as the entire BAU team standing in the hall turns to look at you. </p><p>“She’s asking to talk to you – and she’s ready for that special interview too.” </p><p>Agent Morgan and Prentiss glance at one another, nodding. </p><p>“Hey - I didn’t say anything about that!” Therese shouts from her room. </p><p>“Yes” you shout, back towards the door, “you fucking did!” </p><p>Agent Rossi and JJ smile at your words. </p><p>“It’s good to see you kid – you doing well?”  </p><p>You nod at Agent Rossi, “Yes, apart from tonight’s heart attack, I’m all fine. You?” </p><p>“Same thing” JJ says with a small smile.  </p><p>You turn your attention to Hotch then, unable to hold back any longer. He stands tall and authoritative, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a black suit and tie and he regards you with a steeled expression. </p><p>“She said she saw his face – so you’ll catch him” you say to him. It’s an attempt to get his validation or respect – something so childish and stupid. He doesn’t react, so JJ does. </p><p>“Thank you” </p><p>Feeling awkward then, you take out your phone, “I’m going to call her husband and let him know she’s doing well.” </p><p>You make the famed call outside the hospital and your habit of walking around while talking takes you to a side alleyway. Manuel makes you promise to take pictures of his wife – proof that she’s alive and well and send them to him asap, as he’s on his way.</p><p>You agree and when you hang up you feel lighter. Despite seeing Therese in that state. And<em> despite</em> facing Hotch after all this time – even though he’d been as cold as when he first met you. At least, now you know where you stand with him and you can move on – from whatever  <em> this </em> was. They have no names yet for kissing and having special emotions over the man investigating you.  </p><p>You’re walking back out the alleyway, making your way to the hospital when you bump into someone. Your eyes go wide when you see it’s Hotch. He steps back, putting a good distance between the two of you, as soon as he notices you. </p><p>“Hey-” your breath catches in your throat from having him so close to you all of the sudden. </p><p>“Hey” Hotch repeats, caught in that same surprise of having you in front of him. </p><p>He’s the same as he’d been the last time, composed and stern. It's weirdly the first thing you wanted to see somewhere on his face or body – a sign that your absence has left some kind of visible mark on him.</p><p>So, you didn’t have to actually wonder aloud. So, you’d feel better for not being<em> the only one</em> who’s missed the other. </p><p>Yet, there’s <em>nothing</em>. </p><p>“Thanks for talking to her” he says at last. “She’s doing a cognitive interview – it will help us get an accurate description of the guy and his vehicle.” </p><p>You nod, half paying attention. Your mind decides to remind you of his words when you’d called him – <em>his promise</em>. He’d said he’ d do everything<em> – he</em>. Not the entire team. Maybe it’s grasping at straws but it’s got to be something.</p><p><em>Please let it mean something. </em> </p><p>“That’s good. You’ll catch him soon, then”  </p><p>“Yes” he says, an unreadable expression passing behind his eyes. “As soon as we get that description.” </p><p>You look at the hospital then back at him, “well, uh... good luck” </p><p>“Right. Thanks” </p><p>He steps aside, continuing to walk on the side of the road as you turn around to watch him as he goes, your back to the wall behind you. He halts, glancing at you – the sudden action making you look up. </p><p>Without warning, he pushes you to the wall, his hand diving to the nape of your neck, his other on your waist, hoisting you up as he bends down and - </p><p>He crushes his lips to yours. </p><p>The suddenness of his movements and the friction of your back biting on the brick wall behind, turn the gasp escaping your mouth into a moan. Your body reacts right away – your muscle memory kicking in, tongue and lips matching his passion and intensity without a beat, the small storm that’s been building inside you since that day in your kitchen finally erupting.</p><p>Your skin heats up as your senses are invaded by the smell of his heady cologne, of <em>him  </em>– tasting him on your tongue as he kisses you open-mouthed and sloppy. The realization that he’s kissing you and that he’s doing so in front of the hospital building, so close to his car and everyone passing by brings a thrill to your spine.</p><p>The storm slows down to a light shower as he parts away from you with a few chaste kisses, leaving your bruised lips. </p><p>“<em>...fuck </em>” you exhale, feeling lightheaded and weak as your breathing comes out raggedy. </p><p>He doesn’t move away, his warm body still pressed to yours, feeling the soft tickle of his breath beneath your nose as his hands trail downwards to catch yours, bringing them to his chest. A small smile escapes you, watching him clasp your hands together into his, holding them close to his heart, feeling the loud, unsteady beating of it – both relishing in this small secret. </p><p>“I’ve missed you” he says at last, voice husky and deep, making you hold your breath. </p><p>He leans in, wanting to kiss you again but he thinks better of it as he shuts his eyes and steps away. You bite your lip, wanting to stifle the way your smile seems to widen. </p><p>“I have to head back inside” you whisper softly and he nods, squeezing your hands one last time before letting go. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>When you do go back inside, you keep Therese company until her family visits her and even then, she insists you try and get some sleep. The Agents leave as soon as she gives them everything about the man, as do all the police officers apart from one that stays outside the door for extra security. </p><p>You’re both alone and you’re about to doze off in the uncomfortable chair when she speaks – soft and almost inaudible in the small room. </p><p>“Did you do it?” </p><p>“What?” you ask, opening your eyes to stare at her in confusion.  </p><p>“The condo, the funding of the program and even leaving it on my name – you're trying to get rid of your things.” </p><p>You’re fully awake now, understanding what she’s implying. </p><p>“You <em>killed</em> him – it's why you’re handing out your stuff.” </p><p>“Therese-” </p><p>“You don’t have to lie to me and I don’t need a confirmation either – you know that either way I can tell when you’re lying” </p><p>You shake your head, straightening up in your chair, posture almost unnatural. </p><p>“I just need to know one thing -” </p><p>Your mouth dries up, words dying in your throat even as you try desperately to say something.</p><p><em>Anything</em>. </p><p>“Was he a bad person? All that talk tonight on how first impressions matter and following your gut feeling – they were all about Nathan, weren’t they?” </p><p>You give the tiniest nod. </p><p>“Was he a bad person?” </p><p>You nod again. </p><p>She leans back against her pillows, looking up at the ceiling, “That’s enough for me”, and she lets it go like it’s nothing. </p><p> </p><p>- </p><p> </p><p>You park the car in the front of the condo, too lazy to drive to its parking lot and decide to make the short distance by foot. You’re almost at the door when hairs at the back of your neck stand up, making you freeze in place. </p><p>“Get in the car” a male voice behind you orders, and you hear the distinct cocking of the gun, “before I have to make you” </p><p>You turn around seeing his face – cursing aloud when you note he doesn’t have a mask. Rarely do people who see the faces of their assailants live to talk about it. You follow his instructions though as he opens the car door of a black Mercedes with tinted windows.</p><p>Not knowing what or who to expect you can’t hide the shock when you come face to face with Lucille Anderson inside the small space of the car. And she looks<em> pissed. </em> </p><p>The man pushes inside, as he gets in after you, shutting the door behind him. She holds up a hand and the driver starts the car.  </p><p>“I thought I gave you specific directions what to do with that money. I told you<em> to invest. </em>” </p><p>Did she already learn about your expenditure for the program you left under Therese’s name?</p><p><em>Damn, she does work fast. </em> </p><p>“I told you I’m considering” you answer. </p><p>She holds a finger up and the man at your side pulls out a knife – pressing it at once to your neck, raising your chin up with the cold blade. You suck in a breath. </p><p>“I gave you time” she says slowly, “I’m even giving you space to prance around from one state to another. Yet you’re here,<em> funding charities </em>– are you doing this out of spite?” </p><p>The illogical part of you wants to answer<em> yes</em> – the word is on the tip of your tongue. But you have a knife on your throat, and you fear she’ll not respond too kindly to your remarks. </p><p>“Do you think I'm a patient woman?” </p><p>You peer at her from under your eyelashes, as the man holds the knife higher and you raise your chin, matching it with his movements. </p><p>“I asked a question -” she snaps. </p><p>“No” you let out through your teeth. “You’re not famed for being Miss Patience,<em> no </em>” </p><p>She scoffs, “You’re actively trying to piss me off even with a blade to your throat?” </p><p>“Why don’t you just contest the will?” you ask truthfully.</p><p>You don’t want their money either way – and you don’t want to be her fucking puppet.  </p><p>“I don’t want your<em> fucking </em>money” </p><p>She laughs, “Darling, if you don’t want the money – <em>invest</em> in Clover. It’s what I told you to do.” </p><p>“Why would I invest in internet?” </p><p>You note in the periphery of your vision her raise the index finger. The man pulls away the knife, but not before prickling the skin over your jugular with the point of the blade. It’s a zing that makes you cold all over. </p><p>“1 million to Clover by tomorrow or the next time we see each other,<em> he</em>-” she points at the guy, “will not hold back” </p><p>You nod, reaching up to stop the blood gushing down your neck.  </p><p>“Are we understood?” You nod again.</p><p>It’s all the cue she needs for the man to pick you up like a ragdoll and toss you out of the still moving car. Luckily the slow speed and the fact you roll into grass do not give you major injuries. Only a few scrapes and bruises to your arms. You’re mostly panicking over your neck, even considering to show up at a hospital to make sure you’re fine. Then you note the distance you have to make on foot to get back to your condo. And having to make the distance pisses you off more than her threat. </p><p>“<em>Fucking bitch </em>“ you curse aloud.  </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p><em> You have a gun pointed at his head and he laughs – loud and hollow, making your stomach twist in violent knots.  </em> </p><p><em> “Darling, you’re not going to shoot me – Stop with the play-acting” </em> </p><p><em> It’s a failed attempt to make your aim unsteady.  </em> </p><p><em> “Why do you think so?” you ask, “you did say we are the same. Wh</em><em>y don’t we test that?” </em> </p><p><em> The grin on Nathan's face wipes off.  </em> </p><p>- </p><p> </p><p>When you’re inside the apartment, even through the man’s failed stabbing (you checked - the damage was minor) your mind is sharper. Rehashing the past with Nathan and co., makes you aware of the sentence he’d repeated to you every single moment during your time together.</p><p>How <em>we are the same </em>could work for the will too.  </p><p>Had you not found him that night, would he have eventually told you about his endeavors? Did he really want you to be involved – <em>even potentially take over? </em> </p><p>You tear through your files, looking for something inside the documents you’d printed for Therese. But it’s not here – your newsletter for Clover isn’t here.  </p><p>It would explain why Lucille is not even lifting a finger to contest the will. She’s probably found out about Nathan’s business, maybe even <em>everything else </em>– and wants to get rid of it, of the proof. Your doorbell rings, snapping you out of your thoughts. You throw it open, not expecting anyone else but Lucille. </p><p><em> It’s Hotch</em>. </p><p>He stands before you, still in his suit and tie, and this time he doesn’t steel the emotions in his face.  </p><p>“We caught him” he simply says. </p><p>His gaze on you is intense as he peruses your face, searching your eyes for something. The air between the two of you is thick and it makes you move slowly and in guarded ways as you wordlessly step aside, letting him inside the apartment.  </p><p>You’d left the entirety of it dark and quiet, apart from Carol’s bedroom where your documents for the program are still spread around.  </p><p>It’s good that it’s dark because then his attention would be caught by the scrapes on your neck and the bruises on your arms. And you don’t think you’ll survive it this time – not having your desire finally met.  </p><p>Hotch seems to be convinced of the same as he narrows the distance, shuts the door behind him as his hands turn to grip the sides of your waist, pressing his body to yours. A jolt of electricity shoots up your spine, your mind blanking. </p><p>“<em>Can I kiss you</em>?” he asks slowly, his voice heady.  </p><p>And you’re at a loss for words, his question knocking the wind out of you, feeling like your heart is about to escape your ribcage. You nod feverishly, your fists curling into the material of his button-down, pulling him in.</p><p>“<em>Yes” </em> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey all!! thnx for reading!💕💕<br/>as always lemme know what y'all think!💕</p><p>next chapter will be on what hotch's been up the weeks they've been apart and more... - 👀</p><p>also pls know im in europe thats why the times im updating are so wildly outta pocket lmao</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Stuck on the Puzzle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hotch finds out new things about the Bachelor Snatcher and his mind is riddled with one question.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi all!!💕💕<br/>(did i write a long-ass chapter instead of doing my work? yes i did 😏)</p><p>this has passive dialogue so im sry! but its meant to explain the time gap and ! yes hotch is big H word in this (h*rny)<br/>also pls know theres gonna be a lot of grammar mistakes but don't hate me lmao</p><p>(also im gonna disappear for a bit in order to not procrastinate on work anymore lmao! but hopefully this chapter is good)</p><p>(and yes title from Alex Turner's song lmao big soapy mood here)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Can I kiss you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes” </em>
</p><p>Hotch remembers vaguely – like a long-lost memory just out of his reach – that he has to confront you about <em>something. </em>Something serious. It had been something that had made him lose sleep the last few nights. So much so that once they’d caught the angel of death in New York, his mind had resumed its fixation – making him drive in the middle of the night to the condo they all knew you had in the city.</p><p><em>T</em><em>here had been</em> something to ask.  </p><p>Yet, you guide him further into your apartment with urgent hands, shedding off his suit jacket as you crush your lips against his after answering his question.  </p><p>And his mind <em>blanks</em>.  </p><p><em> Factually,</em> his mind had erased every other thought as soon as you’d opened the door and wordlessly led him inside. The blinding white lighting of the hall in relation to the darkness of your apartment was a good comparison to the turmoil happening inside him. He’d been logical and stoic a few minutes ago while ringing the bell.</p><p>Once he crossed the threshold, <em>everything</em> slipped off him. </p><p>Every doubt he’d had –<em> melted away</em>. The only important thought racing through his mind was if you’d let him kiss you again.</p><p>There’s only the lighting of the moon outside, coming through the large windows as your hands expertly unknot his tie, tossing it somewhere in the room, then pull at his button-down, taking it out of the waistband of his pants – and a grunt escapes Hotch’s throat, your mouth never leaving his.</p><p>He bends down, his hands hooking to the back of your thighs as he hoists you up to wrap your legs around his waist, the friction of your two bodies making you moan into his mouth. </p><p><em> No</em> – that long-lost memory crumbles into dust completely. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>The photo Hotch retrieves from your kitchen drawer ends up in Garcia’s hands as he gives her the explicit order to identify and track down every singly man in it. His bad mood takes on another form when he’s back in Virginia, even though he lies to the others – hiding the real source of that photo from them.</p><p>He even places a request with the women’s prison to have another interview with Maria Gratta – something he doesn’t let the others know yet, only because he doesn’t deem it necessary without an actual approval.</p><p>The first thing though that takes all his time and energy once back is his son, Jack. He spends an entire weekend with him, taking him to the playground and spending enough time that he forgets every worry he’s ever had. </p><p>The first week they spend it doing office work, reports and documentations needed for a few cases they’ve closed. It’s a peace they welcome after the fast pace in Washington. Hotch’s days stretch long in the office, signing and checking documents at long hours.  </p><p>Every once in a while his phone pings with a new update and he has to pause and look at the notification daily.  </p><p>He’s made Garcia setup an automated system which allows both of them to get notifications whenever your name appears in the news. It is a necessary evil because even with the security detail at your door, his mind still plays up the scenario of Davis Finch finding you.  </p><p>He picks up his phone now – skimming the news headline. It’s a culture magazine announcing the opening of a museum and he assumes you’re one of the invited guests. He doesn’t usually read through the articles. But today he does. It’s almost 8pm and his work is almost finished, so he clicks on the link.  </p><p>The article goes on about an exhibition of a famous modern artist, whose paintings were sold handsomely, turning the event into a success. There are photos here and there of the paintings, the performances by the musicians, the artist and the people attending.</p><p>He’s scrolling with no real intention and he almost misses it – </p><p>
  <em> A photo of you.</em>
</p><p>You’re talking to a few people around, smiling a little – and you’re wearing that same dress from the night at the hotel.  </p><p>It’s like a switch is flipped in his mind – and all that plays in his head are memories of that evening. And then, of <em>every time</em> he’s ever kissed you. Of the <em>what ifs</em> – what would have happened in that hotel: what the both of you were trying to make happen in your house.</p><p>Hotch can almost feel it even now – your breath over his lips, the honeysuckle smell and almond taste lingering on his mouth, the soft noises you exhaled that made his brain fuzzy every single time without fail. He almost hates his past self too, for making snap-judgements and always being logical.</p><p>He leans back on his chair, finding it hard to focus on anything else but this photo – <em>you. </em> </p><p>Hotch had felt you that morning move around the bed – he’d woken up worried that you were going to fall off in your drunken haze. But you’d done the opposite, climbing over the pillows and reached out for him with giddy hands, unaware and unconsciously. He’d just watched it all unfold, staying as still as possible in an attempt not to wake you – and not break the moment that for him had caused time to stop.</p><p>You’d stretched your arms around his torso, face gentle in sleep and your eyelashes casting shadows over your face. Warmth had spread over his chest as he'd watched you sleep, your body hot over his, and the orange light from the morning sun dancing across your face and skin making you<em> golden</em>. He'd held his breath, waiting – for you to wake, to shake him off, or something more. But you had done none of those as your face relaxed while sleeping.</p><p>Relief and comfort had washed over him – strong and shaking him to the core. It had made him raise a hand, the pads of his fingers trailing softly the pearls of your spine, feeling your breath slow down and hearing a low hum from the back of your throat – causing you to nuzzle your head against him. The emotion that had filled his lungs then, had been expansive, the peace originating from the comfort of your skin engulfing him at once. He'd stilled, bringing that arm around your waist and tucking you closer.</p><p>And sleep had blanketed him – making his body rest better than ever before. </p><p>His door barges open and he almost jolts. But Morgan – who’d just walked in – is still talking to someone outside the office, not catching Hotch’s reaction. </p><p>He has time to compose himself, leaving the phone over the desk before the other man turns. </p><p>“Hey Hotch-“ Morgan says with a cheeky smile, “a few of us singles are going out to the pub tonight. Thought you might want to join in the fun. We are just going to get a few drinks. What do you say?” </p><p>He answers without thinking. </p><p>“Yes” </p><p>“Oh-“ he lets out, surprise plastered on his face, “good. I’ll text you the location?”  </p><p>Morgan still gives him an out, just in case he hadn’t heard him. Hotch stands up, closing the file he had been working on. He’d already spoken with Jack for the night so he has no pressing matters at hand. </p><p>“No need. I’m coming with.” </p><p>Morgan furrows his eyebrows but he shakes it off, grinning at his boss.  </p><p>“Great. I’ll tell the others“ </p><p> </p><p>He takes a light beer, wanting to still be sober as he watches the others – Morgan, Anderson and a few desk jockeys that Morgan is friends with, chat and joke around as they urge one another to talk to girls around the pub.</p><p>It’s all in lighthearted fun and he knows, but he doesn’t feel ready to be out in the dating world. He didn’t even want to make that step, because he loved Haley – still had the tinniest sliver of hope for their marriage. If anything, being out, watching the younger men encourage each other to talk to other women made him feel more inadequate.</p><p>Or maybe he’s<em> too </em>sober, he thinks.  </p><p>He stands up, making a beeline for the bar and orders another round for the table. It’s a big plus, he thinks - maybe Morgan will stop thinking of him as only a drill sergeant after this.  </p><p>“You’re taking this night seriously”  </p><p>“Sorry?” he turns to the voice that spoke belonging to a young woman at his left, blonde and wearing a dress that hangs low over her shoulders. Her smile is bright as she talks again. </p><p>“The drinks -” she says, pointing at the tray of drinks that the bartender is preparing, “big night for the boys?” </p><p>“Oh, yes-” he says with a polite smile of his own, “I guess so.” </p><p>“Big promotion?” she asks, turning in the barstool so her body is facing him. He cocks an eyebrow. </p><p>“You’re still wearing suits-” she points at the tie around his neck, a thumb then bopping to their table, “so you’ve just left work. And you all have been ordering for a while – so it’s a celebration over <em>something</em>.” </p><p>He chuckles, “Yes, good eye. But not a celebration” </p><p>She nods, feeling proud over her guess and more so that he’s responding to her advances. </p><p>“I’m Yves -” she holds out a hand, and Hotch watches it, pausing as if he’s not aware of what is happening.</p><p>He really is out of the dating game – of anything. He’s not completely oblivious and he’s still a profiler – had seen her watching their table from afar a few times. Yet, there’s something stopping him from reaching out and making this easier than he feels it is. </p><p>“Aaron-” he says, forcing himself to greet her.</p><p>And it’s a split second but your voice rings in his head – teasing him about his <em>questionable taste in blondes. </em>He shakes it off because <em>what is he supposed to do </em>– be stuck forever in the puzzle of you? Not quite comprehending why he feels so taken and conflicted?  </p><p>“I have a duty-” he jokes as he picks up the tray with beers, an eyebrow up, feigning seriousness, his silent charm oozing out of him without any effort, “but I’d like to buy you a drink when I’m back.” </p><p>She beams, and he goes back to the table, ignoring the way the others are silent, mouths agape as they watch him stride so confidently.</p><p>“Damn-”Morgan breathes out, incredibly impressed at the other man’s quiet advances, “-that’s my man! I’d say<em> good luck</em> but -” </p><p>The others laugh as Hotch plucks his glass amongst the tray, taking a sip, straightening up and chuckling at the other man’s words.  </p><p>“I’ll see you at the office” Morgan says with raised eyebrows and a shit-eating grin. </p><p>Hotch pats the other man’s shoulder before heading back out, because he does need a distraction.</p><p> </p><p>- </p><p> </p><p>He’s back home alone, with the woman’s phone number in his front pocket. She’d wanted<em> more</em>, but he’d confessed that he’d just gotten out of a divorce and was not ready to make that jump.  </p><p>It was the truth – but that thought had never occurred to him when he’d kissed <em>you</em>. </p><p>Any moment when he’d done so – he hadn’t even paused to think.   </p><p>He drops his keys and phone over a small desk by the front door, as he takes off his shoes. The emptiness of the house gets to him always, because he’s gotten accustomed to Haley’s voice beckoning him to bed, sometimes at night even Jack’s laughter as he refused to sleep.</p><p>Now, there was nothing.  </p><p>His phone pings and he picks it up, expecting to see a notification from a gossip magazine but it’s a belated email- </p><p><em> Women’s Correctional Prison – Interrogation Form Approval for inmate nr.495 </em> </p><p> </p><p>- </p><p>“Was the outing successful?” Prentiss asks, sitting over Morgan’s desk while the man is standing, telling the group (Reid, JJ, Garcia, her and Rossi) about last night.  </p><p>“I mean it was… for some” he looks pointedly towards Hotch’s office, still empty with no sign of him. </p><p>“What?” JJ asks, laughing at what he’s implying. “Are you saying <em>Hotch</em> joined you?” </p><p>Morgan nods, grinning wide at them. “Yes, he really did. And the man can<em> pull.” </em> </p><p>The others laugh, patting his shoulder as if he’s high and delusional.  </p><p>“Oh, he <em>does</em> have <em>pull”  </em>Rossi teases, eyebrows up as if disbelieving him.  </p><p>“That’s right – Hotch went out with the <em>singles </em>group and asked <em>some</em> woman out.” Prentiss mocks his words, rolling her eyes as she takes a sip from the coffee cup in her hands. “And after that he went and discovered America“ </p><p>“Or went to the beach“, Reid chimes in from his desk, laughing. “Hotch at the beach is more jarring than anything else“ </p><p>“With like a little suit and tie on the sand?” Garcia fills in with a giggle, “maybe <em>short </em>pants and short-sleeved suit. But still with the tie on.” </p><p>The others nod, apart from Morgan, who’s angry they don’t believe him, and Rossi who’s snickering behind his coffee cup, knowing something they don’t. </p><p>“I can almost picture it- “ JJ says with a grin, “and he’d probably swim with them on too“ </p><p>“Guys- “, Morgan calls at them, raising his voice so they can refocus, “I’m telling you- he was out. Ask Anderson, Phillips and the others“ </p><p>“As if you wouldn’t pay them for a prank“, Garcia says, walking over to him, to pat his chest, “you’ve done that before, chocolate thunder.“ </p><p>Morgan huffs frustratingly, “I’m telling you he was out and this gorgeous woman definitely gave him her number – he probably even took her home” </p><p>All their smiles and laughs freeze and they straighten up, Prentiss hopping off Morgan’s desk as she tries to go back to her desk.</p><p>That should have been Morgan’s sign that something is afoot but he continues talking, trying to convince them.  </p><p>“She was a 10- straight out of a modelling photoshoot and she just talked to <em>him</em>“ </p><p>“Morning everyone“ </p><p>Hotch stops behind Morgan. The latter halts, squeezing his eyes shut in shame, and still afraid to turn. Then he remembers with a certain flush of relief – last night’s Hotch was easygoing and humorous.  </p><p>“Hey Hotch-“, he says turning, “<em>slept well</em>?” </p><p>He gives a knowing look to the other man as he grins, only to be met with a deep scowl. </p><p>“Are you hungover?” Hotch shoots back, Morgan’s grin disappearing at once. </p><p>“I need you sharp for this assignment and I don’t have to remind you like you are schoolchildren not to drink on weekdays.” </p><p>“What? Hotch- “ </p><p>“Everyone at the conference room in 10. JJ can I see you in my office?” </p><p>“Yes, Hotch” </p><p>They watch him go up the stairs to the office, while Rossi and Prentiss pat Morgan’s back in support and sympathy. When JJ is in his office, he gives her the rundown of the situation.  </p><p>“There’s media frenzy at the prison, I don’t know why, but if they find out we are interrogating Maria Gratta they will take it to mean it’s a conspiracy. I want you to deal with that – while I go with Reid to the prison. Is that understood?” </p><p>“Yes. I will see who’s out in the field” </p><p>He nods, marching out with her on his side, as they both go to the conference room. They’re all seated, waiting for JJ to debrief them as always. But she sits down, and Hotch takes the floor.  </p><p>“A week ago, I made a request to interrogate Maria Gratta after the new information that we found out – and it was confirmed yesterday. Reid- “ </p><p>The other man straightens up. </p><p>“You and I will head today at the facility. JJ will travel with us to address the press. Rossi is in charge for anything arising here. If you need us, we will be in touch.” </p><p>He waits until Reid nods as a signal that his words have been digested. </p><p>“You’re going to interrogate her over the photo?” Dave asks. </p><p>“Yes, Garcia has yet to identify the other three men“ </p><p>Garcia sitting with them in the round table nods. “Apart from Mathias Gunn, who had serious drug allegations against him by the CIA, who was another victim – the others were squeaky clean. And the three men – they’re as underground as Alex Black. Brook’s accounts do not use photographs so I can’t find out yet which pertains to who.“ </p><p>Dave cuts her off by saying aloud <em>your </em>name, turning to Hotch. </p><p>“<em>She </em>probably knows. She helped identify Alex Black after all. It would be easier to tie those loose ends.” </p><p>“She doesn’t” Hotch answers.</p><p>They all stare at him – he'd never addressed the origins of the photo and that topic is broaching without him wanting to. </p><p>“That photo was from Nathan Anderson’s home office. Let’s meet in 10 at the parking lot” Hotch tells JJ and Reid and they nod. </p><p>He’s packing his suitcase with the documents Garcia had found over the other men in the photo. It was still basics: their net worth, bank account situation, family and home situation – anything that could link these men to one another.</p><p>At present she had found nothing else apart from a few having attended the same private schools and universities. A given considering they were all from elite families. The only thing they had in common was showing up for the day this photo was taken – to then be hunted by Maria Gratta. </p><p>Dave knocks on his open door, making him look up. </p><p>“I have to address something you left open.” he starts, walking inside. “…she <em>handed</em> you the photo” He waits for Hotch to confirm the statement and he nods. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“She did?” Dave asks again. “So, you didn’t <em>find</em> it?” </p><p>“No” Hotch replies with a frown – disliking the tangent towards which this discussion seems to be heading. But he still lies. “She found it in her husband’s office and handed it to me – for our investigation.” </p><p>“Once it was closed” Dave states. </p><p>“Yes, unfortunately.” </p><p>“Do you think you’re going to be objective in that interrogation?” Dave asks, cutting to the chase. “After your- “ </p><p>“It was a spur of the moment” Hotch interrupts, “We were tipsy. It was nothing more.” </p><p>Dave nods, not believing a word he’s saying. “That’s why you went to her house – to<em> inform</em> her?” </p><p>“No, I went to confront her- “, he pauses, realizing what he’s just admitted. Dave throws him a questioning look. </p><p>“I do not appreciate what you are suggesting – I know how to do my job.” </p><p>“I know you do, Aaron. But I think you’re too biased <em>now</em> to be involved. Maybe Morgan or Prentiss would be more level-headed.” </p><p>“Dave, I’m not going to be biased or tolerant. If she did<em> it </em>-“ </p><p>“It’s a temperate suggestion” Dave says slowly, “And it would spare you the truth.” </p><p>“<em>Spare</em> me?” </p><p>“Just give it a second thought.” He leaves him with those words, heading back to his office. </p><p>Hotch stares at the door in confusion.</p><p><em>Spare </em>him? He didn’t <em>need</em> to be spared of anything. </p><p>- </p><p> </p><p>The drive to the prison is quiet and uneventful. Hotch informs JJ to address the press and let them know they’re solely conducting a simple procedure of documentation and that they do not believe a conspiracy is at play with the murders. He instructs Reid to watch the woman’s body language, as they talk.  </p><p>Luckily, Garcia had found more material on her – from her childhood to her adulthood, and every single detail that would otherwise be deemed unimportant is now piled neatly in the car. Reid reads through them all during the drive, saying aloud a few theories of his own as Hotch drives them there. </p><p>When they arrive, they have to break through a mass of journalists and cameras, and JJ is swift to take their attention and answer their questions, while Hotch and Reid head inside. </p><p>The woman has been moved to an empty room; her wrists cuffed on a chain over the table. When she sees Hotch and Reid walk in, she smiles, nodding in greeting. </p><p>“Uncuff her” Hotch orders the prison guard and he does so. </p><p>As soon as she’s free she leans back against the chair. </p><p>“Hello, Miss Gratta.” Reid starts with a small voice, “We are here to ask you a few questions regarding a study we conduct on serial killers. Since there aren’t many female serial killers, you present a very fascinating, uh... <em>case</em>.” </p><p>Maria nods slowly, crossing her arms over her chest.  </p><p>“Case study? You want to ask me questions for a<em> case study </em>– 1 week after I was caught? And by you, nonetheless.” </p><p>“Yes” Reid replies. “It would help us catch the others. You agreed, after all” </p><p>“I did” she says, “because I thought I would be interviewed by<em> women</em> – not men. Thought it was going to be a given.” </p><p>“Or you were expecting to be interviewed by<em> her</em>, again.” Hotch states, watching her reaction.</p><p>She stays still. </p><p>They’d made a plan in the car – Reid would tire her out first with lengthy, dull questions and then they would address the photo Hotch had found in your house. But Hotch is impatient already. He opens the folder, ignoring Reid’s look. He takes out the photo and pushes it across the table to her. </p><p>“<em>Sunny August </em>” She recites. </p><p>She picks the photo up in her hands, looking at it and then flipping it over to the blank page where the words she’d recited are scribbled on. So, their assumption that she’d targeted these men based on the photo was correct. </p><p>“Were you close to Mr. Anderson?” Reid asks, taking over the line of questioning again – his voice is gentle and patient and he’s the default ‘good cop’ for today. </p><p>“Not at all” Maria answers, flipping the photo in her hands so she can stare at the faces of the men again. “I wasn’t close with any of them – if that’s what you’re wondering.” </p><p>“But they’re all the same” Hotch repeats those same words he’d heard her say to you in that interrogation room. “You said<em> they’re </em>all the same.” </p><p>She scoffs, “No, I meant <em>all men</em>. Including you two gentlemen.”</p><p>She drops the photo over the surface of the table.  </p><p>“See, if you’d brought a <em>woman</em> with you in this interrogation, she’d be able to relate to my words. Because <em>you</em> don’t.” </p><p>“I believe you.” Reid states, “I believe when you say that the men you’ve come across are all the same. You grew up in a broken home – your father left you, your sister and your mother at a young age. When your mother passed away when you were a teenager, you had to fend for yourself and raise your sister. My – uh... father left us too. He left my mother and I because it became too hard.” </p><p>Maria studies his face, trying to understand if he’s lying to her or not but Reid’s face is open and genuine. She gives him a small nod. </p><p>“Then your sister passed away tragically.” Reid’s voice breaks as he speaks and Hotch admits it’s because he’s always so empathetic to the victims and the unsubs that he makes such a good interrogator.  </p><p>“I cannot imagine what that must have felt like – to have someone so close to you ripped away in such a violent manner.<em> I’m sorry</em>” </p><p>“We were doing fine” Maria says weakly, looking down at her lap. “Sophia and I were doing<em> fine </em>– she’d just gotten married and <em>she...</em>” </p><p>She sniffles, catching herself before she cries.  </p><p>“Then you had to move – finding yourself with another form of abuse at the gentlemen’s club, seeing these privileged men treat women with disrespect. Probably even thinking they can do anything they wanted to with the women around them.” </p><p>She nods. </p><p>“You had a good home – a good employee and then he fired you for no reason” </p><p>She looks up in surprise – it's a split second but Reid catches it.</p><p>As does Hotch. </p><p>“You weren’t fired.” Hotch says slowly.  </p><p>“No” she replies in a rush. “I was. I was given a shitty excuse and tossed out.” </p><p>“But you got along so well with Ms. Anderson.” </p><p>She shakes her head - “Because... because she didn’t have anything to do with it.” </p><p>Hotch leans forward, “When we interviewed you 2 years ago – you told us Ms. Anderson was in charge of the estate and the employee records. That’s how you were hired – through her insistence.” </p><p>“It changed” she says in a hurry, “He changed the rules – he just decided to<em> toss </em>me out.” </p><p>Reid picks up the cue, “Did Mr. Anderson make unwanted advancements towards you?” </p><p>She shakes her head, “No, he was a quiet man. He loved his wife – there was no doubt about it.” </p><p>Hotch points to the photo between them. </p><p>“Mathias Gunn here – the CIA had questioned him over drug allegations. They suspected connections with the drug cartels in the South.” </p><p>She doesn’t react because the information is new to her. </p><p>“Was that what the others were doing as well? They were a part of an organization linked to the drug cartels?” </p><p>She chuckles, “Do you think I’m the DEA? You’re asking this to the wrong person” </p><p>“Then why these men?” Hotch asks. “You went after these men specifically.” </p><p>“I had a<em> long </em>list” she says with a smirk, “It was going to be anyone from Brook’s, <em>eventually</em>.” </p><p>“You’re lying” Hotch rebuts, meeting every answer she gives with a quick question, only to make her respond without thinking.  </p><p>“If it had been, you would have done so, and yet you didn’t steer away from the ones in this photo.” </p><p>“They are bad men” she says matter-of-factly. “They’re <em>all</em> bad men.” </p><p>“The men of Brooks?” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“The men from the photograph?” </p><p>“Yes” </p><p>“More so than the others?” </p><p>“Yes” </p><p>She halts, biting her tongue. It's not much, but it’s an indirect confirmation. And for the moment that’s all they need as they think swiftly on how to proceed. </p><p>Reid who’s been quiet this whole time throws a quick look at Hotch – one he recognizes as a quiet moment of realization, an <em>Eureka</em>. </p><p>“Your body search and monitoring” Reid states. “When an inmate is admitted, certain inspections take place and every distinctive mark on the body is documented: tattoos, birthmarks, even wounds.” </p><p>Her face goes white. </p><p>“It is a method for law enforcement to recognize the prisoner in case of a breach, escape, or even as a means to recognize them – not only through prints and facial description.” </p><p>Hotch leans back, remembering what Reid had voiced aloud in the car – that she had the same stab wounds as the ones she’d inflicted to her victims. They were small and faded but notable enough to be documented on her personal file. </p><p>“You have stab wound across your torso. You tried to mirror them in the men you murdered.” </p><p>She leans away from them, wanting to put distance between. </p><p>“I haven’t seen them, obviously, but your Medical Examiner reported that they were faded and yet not superficial as if they’d been done so repeatedly over the same spots. As if your wounds had healed and then reopened again.” </p><p>Hotch notes her breathing has become shallow too. </p><p>“They weren’t self-inflicted" Reid continues. “Otherwise, they would be more visible. And they weren’t done by someone who’s at Brooks because they would have continued. I’m assuming they stopped one and a half years ago – at the same time when your employment at the Anderson estate ended prematurely.” </p><p><em> A wild thought sprouts in </em><em>Hotch’s</em><em> head, as Reid talks. </em> </p><p>“Mr. Anderson fired you personally and per your exact words: he loved his wife. He had to fire you so his wife wouldn’t find out his secret. It's what he did, right?” </p><p><em> That Nathan Anderson was a textbook psychopath. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> He inflicted those wounds on you in a ritual manner, only to realize that he had to sacrifice his hobby in order to maintain his happy marriage. Is that why he fired you? Is that what all those men were? Because <em>they were the same</em>.” </p><p><em> That you’d married a man, who dabbled in torture and probably worse in his free time, and in your house, right under your nose. </em> </p><p>Maria doesn’t speak, and she’s shaking, her entire body in blown out shivers. </p><p>“No - it was fine. It will all be fine” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else, as she gathers her knees to her chest, rocking slowly forward. “I will be fine. I’m fine. The baby and me are the only things important. I have to take care of the baby.<em> I have to think of my sister.</em>” </p><p>Her voice is hollow, her mind out of reach and Reid stands, realizing she’s going into shock. </p><p>“Ms. Gratta?” he calls her. “Ms. Gratta? Everything is fine” </p><p>But she continues repeating those same words in a loop like a mantra and Hotch can do nothing but watch. He’s utterly frozen as he realizes something that makes his heart drop – that a person like Nathan Anderson wouldn’t have gotten rid of his torture subject without getting a replacement. </p><p>And he doesn’t want to think about that slim possibility. He doesn’t want to – but you were the only one left in that big house.  </p><p><em> What if he’d done the same to you? </em> </p><p>Reid’s voice is loud and raucous as he calls for medical assistance and Hotch snaps out of it, standing up at once. He takes the photo away from her as doctors and nurses rush inside. It registers then, that they’d done more harm to this woman than they’d helped her.</p><p>She’d probably repeated the same stabbing wounds unconsciously – an effect of not dealing with her traumas and abuse. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch lets it go. It’s the only thing he can do after the only person who knew about these men had gone through a mental breakdown – per the psychiatrist’s words. The others offer other theories. That the men were part of a secret organization, possibly linked to the drug cartel that Gunn allegedly dabbled in.</p><p>And even, after the recent revelation, that they were part of some group that shared the same hobbies as Nathan Anderson. Their focus shifts. Finding the remaining three men becomes a new priority, in order to stop them from continuing the same rituals as Nathan.  </p><p>It’s a week later when JJ informs them they have a new case – what looks like someone cleaning off the streets of New York from sex workers.  </p><p>They have no time to ponder as they fly immediately to the city. He tasks Prentiss and Dave with inspecting the latest body at the M.E. While Reid, Morgan and Hotch head to the dumping site and then back to where a woman had made the call of her friend missing.  </p><p>He’s half paying attention; the police chief talks his ear off about the prostitution rates in the city as of late while Reid and Morgan interrogate the woman. </p><p>“No, there was nobody suspicious – but I would remember you, <em>honey </em>” she says, smiling at Reid, who shies away. </p><p>“Okay, well. Thanks, either way.” Morgan says, stifling a laugh. “Be careful these days. Keep an eye out for each other and-” </p><p>She swats a hand at them, “Yes, yes, I know. We already had an expert tell us everything.” </p><p>The police chief and Hotch turn to the woman, both thinking they suddenly have a lead. </p><p>“Expert?” Reid asks. “Did he approach you in a vehicle?” </p><p>“What?” she frowns at Reid, “No. <em>She </em>met us in the bar down the street. Told us to text each other when we get in and out of a job. Even take down plates before someone leaves.” </p><p>Reid and Morgan share a look. </p><p>“That’s, uh, smart” </p><p>“Yeah“ she says, “Someone said she was like an expert at finding serial killers or something, that she’d caught one of them apparently“ </p><p>“Caught?” Morgan asks. </p><p>She nods, “Yes, could have been a lie though. She looked too boujee to have done something like that – she just looked like she’d never worked a day in her life, you know? She did tell us the FBI would show up so she must have been right for all I know.” </p><p>Hotch shakes his head –<em> because it can’t be</em>. His first thought can’t be that<em> somehow </em>  that woman is <em>you</em>. When you’re all the way in Seattle and <em>not</em> in New York.  </p><p>“She even told us about these weird apps to download – GPS shit and –“ </p><p>“SafeCity?” Hotch interjects.</p><p>Morgan and Reid throw him a look, understanding right away what he’s thinking. </p><p>“Yeah! That one too! Apparently came out 2 years ago but I never heard of it before.” </p><p>“Wow,” Morgan says glancing at Hotch, “seems like<em> our </em><em>friend </em>is in New York.” </p><p>And Hotch feels strange – almost the same rush of excitement from back in middle-school when he’d find himself in the same class as Haley.</p><p>This one is unjustifiable.  </p><p>-- </p><p>They manage to detail the profile, delivering it then to the police officers and the precinct. But they still stick around the office, coming up with theories on how to proceed now that they’ve taken away the dumping site from the unsub.  </p><p>JJ pushes a cup of coffee Hotch’s way, going around the table to do the same with the others. She’d talked to the press as soon as they’d arrived. Prentiss and Morgan are already too many cups of coffees ahead of the others, while Dave and Reid are in that zone of tiredness mixed with reckless conviction that every minor thing they discover is relevant to the case.  </p><p>Hotch almost feels like ordering them to head to bed. But he knows they’ll refuse either way. Morgan shifts in his seat for the umpteenth time – causing them all to glare at him.  </p><p>“…these chairs are not comfortable” he clarifies. </p><p>“I don’t know” JJ says, “they’re better than any motel” </p><p>Dave rolls his eyes.  </p><p>“You think we can ask<em> our</em> <em>friend </em>a favor?” Prentiss asks, looking pointedly at Dave. “You could call her” </p><p>Dave shakes his head, a small smile on his face.  </p><p>“We’d sleep well” JJ chimes in, “and we work better when we sleep“ </p><p>“She doesn’t have the condo anymore, remember?” Morgan replies. “She slept with us at the motel” </p><p>“Oh, right” Prentiss lets out. “Is it bad that I’ve been fantasizing about the mattress in her villa since we left?” </p><p>Hotch watches them joke with each other like he’s an outsider. And he feels Dave’s eyes on him, but his attention is caught by his phone over the table – ringing.  </p><p>He has your number saved – had it on his phone since that time he’d had Garcia redirect your call. Dave reads your name on the screen too. Hotch stands up, picking up at once, and the others hush. </p><p>“What’s wrong?” he asks, trying to steel the worry in his face. </p><p>“Are you in New York?” you ask, voice breaking – making Hotch inhale deeply.</p><p>And he’s finding it hard to not show any emotion when you sound hurt. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>You explain in rushed urgent words the situation and Hotch snaps his fingers at Reid as he mouths Bushwick and Richwood – the young agent going to mark the location on the map. He motions for them to get ready as you continue speaking. They all stand up at once, following his orders.  </p><p>“We will” he says, watching Morgan, Prentiss and Reid storm out with their guns in hand. Rossi and JJ are almost out too as he finally allows himself a sliver of emotion. </p><p><em> “I promise you</em> I will do everything in my power” </p><p> </p><p>- </p><p> </p><p>Morgan and Prentiss find the woman in an alleyway, hidden behind dumpsters and shaking – a knife on her hand that she directs at them too. She’s bleeding from her face and chest, and only when he listens to the EMTs confirm that she’s okay does he call you again. Hotch walks away from the BAU, going out to the hall, leaving Therese’s room.  </p><p>And he’s standing almost too far from everything, a good safe distance so he can comfort you in the open as he informs you. But the police chief calls him over, cutting his plan in half. He’s back in the room, feeling the others' eyes on him.  </p><p>“I’ve missed you” you say, and he inhales deeply, worried everyone has heard your soft-spoken confession.  </p><p>“We’ll be here” he says instead, hoping you understand he means <em>he</em> <em>will wait</em> for you. “She’s refusing to give a statement” </p><p>You tell him something over the case, but your previous words rattle around in his brain for a good while as he chucks out a: </p><p>“I’ll see you when I get here” </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Dave, Morgan, Prentiss, Reid, JJ and Hotch watch you go inside Therese’s room – more like <em>storm</em> inside, slamming the door behind you. </p><p>“You think she’ll convince her?” Prentiss asks aloud. </p><p>Dave chuckles, “Oh, I’m sure she will” </p><p>And he’s right because they can hear every word you shout at your friend – every attempt at convincing her to talk to the agents. </p><p>Hotch has a one-track mind, stuck on what you’ll do once facing him – if you even trusted his work anymore, after accusing you of wanting to continue Maria Gratta’s crimes. He’s almost certain your confession over the phone had been a figment of his imagination, of his own wishful thinking.</p><p>He’s replaying that in his head, trying to let himself down in gentler ways. It’s for naught though once he hears your loud words again from behind the closed doors. </p><p>“They’re not bad at their job – they're <em>excellent</em> at it. It’s how they caught that serial killer. Doubting people is just what they do.” </p><p>Dave and JJ share a look, stifling their smiles.  </p><p>“If you don’t tell them – this<em> fucker</em> flees and goes back to killing others. Is <em>that </em> what you want?” </p><p>And every worry he’s had leaves. </p><p>“That’s one way to do it” Dave whispers at them. </p><p>“But will it be efficient?” JJ wonders aloud. </p><p>The door bursts open and you come out, fuming. </p><p>“She’s asking to talk to you and she’s ready for that special interview too.” </p><p>Morgan and Prentiss glance at one another, and they move forward, about to go inside the room.</p><p>Therese’s boisterous voice stops them. </p><p>“Hey - I didn’t say anything about that!” </p><p>You don’t falter or move an inch as you reply with the same volume: “Yes, you fucking did!” </p><p>A rush of emotion surges over Hotch that he cannot quite name yet. He’s taken aback by the simple fact that you still respect the BAU,<em> him, </em>and trust them blindly even after everything he’d said to you. Even after treating you differently each time.  </p><p>He zones back in when you turn to him, confirming that Therese saw the face of the unsub and that they can rest easy because they’ll catch him. And he’s at a loss for words...  </p><p><em> No - </em> </p><p>He’s <em>not</em> really. Because there’s something he wants to say – an apology wants to pour out of his mouth, but he cannot do it here, with everyone around. So, he just stares at you, unable to react. </p><p>“Thank you” JJ says for him, and he’s grateful. </p><p> </p><p> -- </p><p>His emotions take over him in other ways as he kisses you in front of the hospital building. Then again when they arrest the unsub, after finding the unsub's van not too far from the last dumping site in a dirty old house – he finds himself driving back to your condo.  </p><p> </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p><em> There had been something he wanted to desperately ask. </em> </p><p>But you feel so good pressed to his body, your smell intoxicating to his senses, your skin soft against his touch, the taste of your lips against his turning him into a feral creature – living solely at the expanse of his desires.  </p><p>You detach your arms from around his neck, mouth parting from his as you reach out to yank off your shirt. There’s only the ivory light of the moon shining across your skin but it gets the wind knocked out of him out as he takes you in – only a dark-colored bra away from being bare before him.</p><p>He kisses you again, slow and passionate this time, the friction of his naked chest against yours deriving shivers of pleasure from you and low groans from him - before you part from his mouth a second time. </p><p>“My bedroom is that way” you instruct, voice sickly sweet to his ears.</p><p>Hotch heads right, holding you in the dark and trying very hard to see and follow simple instructions as your lips nip and suck at the crook between his neck and shoulder, making his hands grip firmly at your hips. His foot gets caught on something, making him jump, and you to halt your movements, latching into his neck with both arms, pressing your cheek against his. </p><p>“<em>Jesus,</em> don’t drop me” you huff out, your warm breath fanning over his ear, sending a jolt of electricity all the way to his toes.</p><p>“It will be hard to convince me to have sex with you after that.” you tease, laughing pressed to him.  </p><p>He squeezes your waist in reply, his chest expanding at the sound of your laughter.  </p><p>“Oh, yeah?”  </p><p>“Yes” you breathe out, “<em>I won’t</em>.” </p><p>“Oh, really?” his hands trail upwards slowly, turning them slightly so his fingers dance across your sides and his thumbs brush the skin over your ribcage, reveling in the way your breath catches, as he stops right below your breasts. </p><p>“Really?” he drawls, continuing to walk in the dark, hating the fact this hall seems to stretch out for miles. But you can’t seem to speak – your breathing coming out deep and ragged.  </p><p>“Please” you plead, almost inaudible, “<em>bedroom </em>” </p><p>And he takes his cue, finding at last the only lit bedroom from the entire house, but not before he slams into something else – your arm getting caught on the half-open door.  </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>” you breathe out in pain, and he parts away to get a good look at you to make sure you’re fine – still holding you. </p><p>That’s when he remembers: </p><p><em> He has to ask you if you ever thought Maria had killed Nathan. </em> </p><p> </p><p>-</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey all!! thnx for reading!💕💕<br/>as always lemme know what y'all think!💕</p><p>love y'all !! ur comments make my day lol</p><p>(and pls i dont have nth against blondes i just find it a nice metaphor or whatever in the comparison his mind makes to Haley (since she's blonde) and know that i'm keeping any significant physical feature unmentioned so u can all find urself in this character!! hopefully!)</p><p>also if u guys have like ~requests 👀 (or sth specific u wanna read) lemme know, bcs y'all know where the next chapter is gonna head towards... so (unless this a weird thing to say - then ignore it completely)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. I Want You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hotch visits you at the condo - but you're not ready to confront him yet</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi all<br/>(i know i shouldn't be here ! 😔😔 bcs i have so much shit to do lmao)<br/>but i leave you with </p><p>TW: ~spice ! (and a short chapter bcs i thought let's leave this kinda happy for once and also give them some peace lmao hence the length)</p><p>(also yes ive listened to this Mitski song in repeat lmao u already know)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hotch looks at you like he’s seen a ghost.  </p><p>“What happened?” he asks, worried eyes fixed over your neck, his voice husky and low - an after-effect of your heated make out. “Who did this?” </p><p>There was a reason why you’d wanted the lights off. You’d have to thank Lucille again for being a major cockblocker.  </p><p>“Lucille” you reply.</p><p>Hotch maneuvers you around, walking the distance to the bed and sitting you down gently. Your arms leave his neck and he notes the bruises too. The door had bit into a particularly big bruise over your elbow causing you to whine in pain – it’s what presses pause to your motions.  </p><p>Hotch crouches before you, taking your hands in his as he inspects your arms.  </p><p>“In Seattle?” he asks. </p><p>You shake your head, more pissed off than anything, feeling strange and warm at the way he’s looking at you, to make sure you’re healthy.  </p><p>“After the hospital. She picked me up in front of the building here. Well – more like<em> snatched </em>me up. Told me my time to invest is running out, apparently. I have until tomorrow to hand her 1 million. “ </p><p>He frowns, squeezing your hands clasped in his, the worried lines over his forehead and between his eyebrows piling up. </p><p>“We still don’t know what she intends to do with Clover.” </p><p>You pull him up, guiding him gently over the bed at your side.  </p><p>“I know and I’m not thrilled to just give her money. The funny thing is – I told her to contest the will. That I would do it myself too. But she didn’t want the money either.” </p><p>Hotch watches you in silence.</p><p>Oh, <em>right</em>. You’d forgotten for a split second – <em>man who’s investigating you.  </em> </p><p>“The<em> will</em>?” </p><p>You inhale – he’d probably found out either way through Penelope so there’s no way to escape this.  </p><p>“Yes, my husband apparently left me his fortune.” </p><p>He nods, his expression turning serious. </p><p>“Before you say anything – no I didn’t know about it until Lucille confronted me about it at the firing range. And you can check through Penelope-“ </p><p>He reaches over, his knuckles brushing lightly over your neck, seeing the band-aid you’d put for the small poke that man had done with the knife. It makes you hold your breath. His gentle touch, so different from how he’d been handling you a second ago, and his worried eyes – they both make your heart beat louder inside your ribcage. </p><p>You’d always thought he’d be stuck between agent-mode and the rare zone where he wants to kiss and make-up.</p><p><em>This </em>one is new. </p><p>“I’ll have Garcia look into her expenses and the will too –“ he pauses, then adds “if that’s okay.” </p><p>And maybe it’s his gentle tone and the fact he seems to be considering how his actions make you feel – but you have the strangest urge to tell him about your theory over Clover. Even if it is still extremely superficial. </p><p>You turn to look at the mass of papers spread over the thick carpet flooring, spotting from this distance the head letter from Clover’s newsletters.  </p><p>You reach for it, dropping hands and knees over the floor to grab the paper, and reading what you’d expected.  </p><p>“I have a theory over Clover but take it with a grain of salt since I know nothing over technology or the internet“ </p><p>Hotch nods – back to being the unit chief of the BAU even though he’s shirtless over your bed. </p><p>“Lucille said it will be internet infrastructure – an indispensable tool for everyone in protecting their privacy…” </p><p>You hold out the paper and he takes it. </p><p>“Front page“ you wait until he’s flipped it over to where you instruct, “they say that it will be more relevant than a VPN.” </p><p>You recite aloud what’s written, and Hotch cocks his head to the side.  </p><p>“When normal people like you and I hear those words they think – wow <em>cool</em>, the government won’t see my internet searches. Because I googled an ex or you looked at porn.” </p><p>Hotch watches you with the tiniest flicker of amusement, but still fully paying attention.  </p><p>“And those are pretty normal searches – but what happens to people with not <em>so </em>normal searches?” </p><p>“You mean... criminals…?” </p><p>You nod, hoisting yourself up in your knees and turn to stand before him.</p><p>“I’m saying even plans for terrorist attacks, people searching for houses to burn or whatever, kids to kidnap or worse. It would mean those people would get harder to catch –<em> your</em> job would get significantly harder.” </p><p>Hotch thinks it over, and looks up to meet your gaze. </p><p>“I think you’re right – it would explain her insistence in getting investors. She’d be profiting indirectly and would face no legal consequences over the project.” </p><p>You inhale deeply, realizing he’s right. It’s why she wants you to pour more money into the project – because you’d automatically have more of the shares of the company. And the more you own – the more responsible you’d be over an eventual fall-out.  </p><p>You stand up at the same time that Hotch reaches for his phone, calling Penelope. She answers even though they’d finished work not long ago. </p><p>“Yes, sir?” </p><p>He’s got that same look and posture he has on the job – looking stoic and like someone you’d easily trust with your life. And you remember with a quickened pulse where you’d been before you’d stumbled against the bedroom door. </p><p>“Garcia could you check tomorrow if Clover’s tight security would mean certain websites would not be flagged by the government-“ he inhales deeply as he looks up in surprise, watching you strip off slowly the pants you’d been wearing.  </p><p>There’s a <em>handsome </em>  man on your bed –  who you still want to kiss, and who’s worried for your health and safety. That’s<em> all </em>  you can think about. And he’s helped you figure out why Lucille’s new venture is inherently evil – and <em>well</em>, you don’t feel like waiting any more.  </p><p>“...government” Hotch repeats again, and it makes you smile that you’d wiped blank his extremely sharp mind. </p><p>“Sites such as the dark net, terror attacks, websites where – where people would find...“ </p><p>Penelope must finish his trail of thought and it’s for the better because he’s started stammering. Hotch moves his hand out of the way as you narrow the distance, and slowly lean over him – throwing a leg on the outside of his then the other, and with your hands over his shoulders you sit over his lap, straddling him.  </p><p>“… thanks Garcia.” He hangs up and you grab his phone right away, his hold on it not even that strong.</p><p>Now that his hands are free he reaches for your hips, palm spread out on the sides. You drop the phone behind you, and you both hear it fall over the soft carpet.  </p><p>“No more distractions” you promise and he doesn’t waste any second.</p><p>He kisses you – slow and open-mouthed. He’s<em> heady</em> – his hands at your sides, holding your hips and  guiding  you directly over <em>h</em><em>im</em><em>, </em>feeling the way he wants you. It makes you smile against his mouth, and  your hands frantically  fumble with his belt, wanting it off at once – wanting no more layers in between.His teeth graze your lower lip and pull at it gently. It makes you whimper into his mouth – his hands moving upwards to grab at your bra strap behind your back. </p><p>He parts away, looking you in the eyes as he asks. </p><p>“Do you want<em> this</em>? I want to hear you <em>say</em> it“ </p><p>And his words shouldn’t be so easily able to make your heart beat louder and your breath catch – but they do and it makes you gulp as you nod feverishly. </p><p>“<em>Say it</em>. I want to hear you.“ </p><p>“Yes,<em> fuck</em>.” You let out, “Do you want me to <em>beg</em> or something?“ </p><p>His finger and thumb unclasp your bra strap at once, and it falls loosely around you. He plucks the garment with gentle hands, stripping it off you with all the patience in the world. It makes you frustratingly hot.</p><p>You take the piece of clothing from his hand and chuck it behind you. Hotch smiles, unfazed at your actions but still regarding you with a look in his eyes as if he’s the luckiest man in the world to watch you like this – as if you’re a figment from his dreams. </p><p>“You’re beautiful“ </p><p>His words make you almost choke up and you ramble, wanting to distract him and yourself from showing more emotion than necessary. </p><p>“Yes, yes –<em> I know </em>“ </p><p>The words in your mouth die out, turning into moans as his lips latch to your neck – kissing, nipping and sucking downwards to your collarbones. His hand over your hips and the other on the nape of your neck angle you for better access, as your fingers dive for his hair. He flips you over, throwing you not-so-gently anymore over the bed, as he positions himself between your legs – his mouth diligently continuing its warm path down.  </p><p>“<em>Tell me</em> what you like-“ he whispers over your skin, his mouth between the valley of your breasts.  </p><p>“Do you like it when I do <em>this?  </em> </p><p>His entire attention shifts to your breast – making you whimper and whine shamelessly loud, throwing your head back.</p><p>You’re staring at the ceiling with half-hooded eyelids, your mind reeling as you think if it’s even possible to<em> come undone</em> like this, back arched almost painfully – or if it’s a mixture of his voice, his confident gaze, his <em>hands and mouth, </em>the <em>want</em> for him lasting so long unfulfilled, and even the low rumbling from the back of his throat and not just <em>one singular </em>thing.  </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>” you breathe out at the mercy of his passion, “I <em>hate </em>you” </p><p>Hotch chuckles, the vibration of his laughter over your skin turning the heat between your legs up a notch. </p><p>“Do you want me to stop?” he pulls on the soft skin of your breast with his mouth. </p><p>“<em>No </em>” you answer without hesitation. “I’ll hate you more if you do-“ </p><p>A cry of pleasure tears itself out of your throat and your mind blanks completely.</p><p>When you’re back from your high, you’re panting, Hotch standing over you with a smug look on his face.  </p><p>“What was it that you said?” he whispers, reaching down to capture your lips.</p><p>You keep him pressed against you, kissing him sloppily until your lungs scream for air. He leans his forehead against yours, his fingers reaching to tuck a strand of hair stuck to your cheek behind your ear.  </p><p>“How are you<em> so good</em> at this...  “ you  mutter stupidly.</p><p>He smiles, pressing a chaste kiss over your lips. The stupidest thought pops up in your head that you don’t voice aloud – how his wife <em>even</em> let him go when he’s just <em>so...</em></p><p>That train of thought dies quickly when you hear his belt unbuckle, and the bed dip. You prop yourself in your elbows, and watch him take off his pants. He’s just in his boxers – the light of the room allowing you to take in his toned body. You’d never truthfully imagined him looking <em>so </em> – </p><p>So <em>good</em>.</p><p>You’re at a loss for words because he’s <em>attractive </em>and almost <em>too much</em> to bear. </p><p>Those suits are really doing him a disservice as much as they were working for him. And you want to say something witty – like how he’s some sort of Superman, hiding his real identity in normal people’s clothes. </p><p>But then his boxers are off, and your mouth hangs open, and you take in in the sight of him. And then he’s back on the bed, pulling your legs around his waist - all the blood in your brain rushing down in excitement.  </p><p>“<em>Yes</em>“ you breathe out once you see that same question about to pop up in his mind. “Yes. I <em>want</em> you” </p><p>He smiles, soft and gentle and making your stomach knot pleasantly.  </p><p>“I’m <em>ready“ </em> </p><p>You prop yourself up higher, almost sitting up completely and the hands on your thighs brush down slowly, as he watches you – pupils blown out and hair disheveled. You’re frustratingly impatient – hot and bothered and<em> eager</em>, more than anything else. </p><p>“Hotch, I <em>swear </em><em>to God</em>if you take all the time in the world again I will-“ </p><p>He leans over, kissing you in that way <em>only he</em> knows how – making you forget where you are and your name, leaving you starstruck and dumbfounded.  </p><p>His fingers hook around the waistband of your undergarment, yanking it off you with ease– and the warmth inside your chest and the heat pooled at the end of your belly overpower every other thought and feeling.  </p><p>“Will you<em> scream </em>for me again?” He whispers over your mouth, hot breath fanning over your lips.</p><p>And you nod, unable to do anything else.  </p><p>With no further warning, and waiting no longer – his patience running thin as well – he <em>drives </em>into you, a whimper escaping your mouth at the feeling of him. </p><p>And you’re reduced to panting, mewling and cries –<em> screams </em>of pleasureas he’d wished for – with every back and forth you do together. Your body is running on a steady current, your eyes squeezed shut, and your hands gripping his back and shoulders, nails biting into skin. You barely register the words out of his mouth, his groans of pleasure pushing you further off the edge – as he leans over to kiss you, mouth clashing painfully against yours, but making you laugh all the same.  </p><p>“<em>Fuck...</em>“   </p><p>Because never in a million years would you have pictured yourself<em> here </em>– nearly blissed out and a writhing whimpering mess under the ministrations of the man in front of you.  And laughing overjoyed because he <em>wants </em>you – he wants <em>you. </em> </p><p>His right hand grips your left leg as he pushes you further down the bed and drapes your leg over his shoulder. The new angle and his hand diving between the two of you make you almost <em>combust </em>–right then and there.  </p><p>"<em>Ah</em>- Jesus, fuck... Hotch-"</p><p>And you remember faintly what <em>he </em>likes as well as you struggle to open your eyes and meet his gaze  – expectantly waiting and <em>desiring </em> with all your might to hear those appraising words from him.  </p><p>Hotch obliges you – urging you to let go and – </p><p>You<em> do</em>, panting wildly at the ceiling, the last scream erupting from your throat as you look into his eyes echoing in the space around. It makes you flush red when you come down from your high – and Hotch follows suit, dropping his body over yours, gently angling your leg back down over the bed. </p><p>You’re both sweaty and still breathing wildly, bodies sticking to one another but not unpleasantly.  </p><p>“You didn’t disappoint “, you let out wanting your voice to sound like a tease but coming out too weak and breathy to be a valid witty retort.  </p><p>Hotch chuckles, pulling himself off and rolling to the other side of the bed, his body leaving yours deriving a last whimper out of you. </p><p>“Thanks for the ego boost“ </p><p>You almost want to bite back another reply – about that <em>aftercare </em>talk he’d mentioned in your house, but he’s suddenly up, making noise around the room as he searches for something.  </p><p>“What are you doing?“ You roll to the side, and catch him rummage inside the wardrobe. </p><p>“Patience “ </p><p>And then he’s next to you on the other side of the bed, smiling softly as he looks at you, looking more attractive than before.  </p><p>“What?” you ask, biting your lip. It's crazy that the want for him is still there.</p><p>He shakes his head, reaches down and cleans your legs and thighs, heading back up to leave a kiss over your forehead.  </p><p><em> “Fuck, stop it.</em>” </p><p>When you open your eyes he's not there anymore.</p><p>Hotch looks up from all the way at the end of the bed as he’s putting on his boxers. His dimpled smile and the high cheekbones make him look younger – boyish and mischievous. </p><p>He’s<em> too much</em>. Just <em>unbearably </em><em>attractive and gentle and hot and – </em> </p><p>You squeeze your eyes shut.</p><p>Because how<em> the fuck </em>are you supposed to go back to normal? To a life where you didn’t know what being like <em>this </em>with him would have been like?  How would you go back to pretending you’re a good person, <em>like him? </em> </p><p>You head to the bathroom to pee, and climb back into bed, Hotch already waiting and blanketing you into his arms. The hum of content he lets out against the nape of your neck, pressing another kiss to your skin, your back against his front makes you choke up – </p><p>How the hell are you supposed to<em> lie</em> to him? </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>When you wake up in the morning, it’s still too early – the sun is not yet out and the room is cast in a a blue overglow. You reach your hands out for the body next to yours but he’s nowhere nearby. All you grab are loose sheets and pillows. You begrudgingly sit up, waiting to witness the mess around the bedroom with a clear head – your clothes and his around the room, papers still spread on the floor, and everything else but it’s the opposite.</p><p>His clothes are neatly folded over a couch, yours over his. And the papers spread out are neatly piled up over the table. The only mark left from your night together is the bed you’re on – sheets and blankets spread and hanging off to the ground. You take in a deep breath as you hear him fumble around the kitchen – pausing only to put on a dress you’d left in the apartment before moving out. </p><p>When you see Hotch – he's struggling to turn on the stove, with a moka pot in his hands. The entire house has been baby-proofed since Therese had moved in and he keeps rotating the button with no avail. He looks up when you let out a laugh. </p><p>“You’re okay?” </p><p>“I swear I had this same thing in my house but I can’t seem to turn it on now” </p><p>You laugh again, and he moves out of the way, to let you fix the stove for him. You pull at the thing and rotate but nothing happens. </p><p>“Seems like it’s not working for you either” he hums, placing the moka pot over the counter.  </p><p>“Do you even know how to use that?”  </p><p>He shakes his head, “Not really but Dave has yelled at me enough times to know I’m supposed to never wash it with soap.” </p><p>You laugh, relieved at the fact the version of him this morning is not the agent one, ready to ask you a million question over your past life with Nathan or more. </p><p>“So, I can't make you breakfast” he mutters to himself and that same bubbling feeling you’d gotten when he’d kissed you in front of the hospital surges upwards.</p><p>He’s just inherently a romantic – <em>isn't he</em>? </p><p>“I’m sure there’s cereal” you move to the taller drawers, reaching up on your toes to open them up and taking out a box of cereal. </p><p>“What do you say?” </p><p>He takes out a carton of milk from the fridge, and two bowls and spoons and places them over the table. You sit down, feeling like a teen who’s just convinced her long-time school-crush to hang out after class. </p><p>“Even my son, Jack, has a better breakfast than this.” Hotch lets out and that small slip of the tongue makes you pause – your belly overflowing with tiny butterflies over the casualness with which he mentions his son.</p><p>He pushes a bowl your way once he pours cereal over it. You take it with certain giddiness, relishing in this version of him – open and easygoing and talking about his life. </p><p>“What does he usually eat?” you ask with a feeble voice, worried the openness will cease if you say the wrong thing.  </p><p>“Blueberry pancakes” Hotch says, pouring milk over his bowl with cereal, “bacon and eggs – but only if they’re star-shaped.” </p><p>“Of course,” you chime in. </p><p>He smiles to himself, “sometimes waffles but they have to be mickey mouse shaped, with the large ears and everything. And he wants maple syrup but he always gets a sugar rush-” </p><p>He looks up, meeting your eyes and for a split second that same worry overtakes you – expecting for realization to hit him that he’s talking to <em>you. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>So, waffles are strictly numbered” </p><p>You take a spoonful of the cereal and you remember a particular cooking class from a year ago. </p><p>“Have you ever tried making him banana oat waffles?” </p><p>He cocks an eyebrow. “No, how do I do that?”</p><p>You drop the spoon over the bowl as you scour your brain for the easy recipe. </p><p>“Rolled oats, ripe bananas, eggs, vanilla extract and baking powder, salt – all in a blender and then into the waffle iron.” </p><p>“Hm” he lets out and you’re unable to decipher his look.  </p><p>You eat in comfortable silence, glancing at one another with knowing looks. The cereal does nothing for the hunger in your belly, and he’s the same as he pours another bowl once finishing the first. </p><p>“I think there’s a coffee place nearby” you let out, placing a hand over his, stopping him before he reaches for the milk again. “So, we don’t finish three boxes of cereal in an attempt to make a breakfast out of this.” </p><p>He nods, and looks down at his watch, “It’s not even 6 yet” </p><p>“Yes. Why did you wake up so early?” You lean back against the chair – waiting for the other shoe to drop at last.</p><p>Hotch takes in a breath, mirroring your posture. </p><p>“Our plane for Virginia leaves at 8am”  </p><p>“You could catch a train at lunch time” you offer meekly, not ready to part from him yet. “New York isn’t that far from Quantico.” </p><p>He doesn’t react, your hand still over his, unmoving. </p><p>“It would be easier to travel after eating proper breakfast. Even lunch.<em> Maybe</em> even dinner?” </p><p>He chuckles, turning his hand under yours, intertwining your fingers together. He tugs your hand up to his mouth, kissing softly your knuckles – and the butterflies in your belly swarm faster at that simple act.  </p><p><em> God</em>, if he’d stop being <em>so </em>gentle then treating <em>this </em>as <em>just</em> sex would be easier. And you wouldn’t feel guilty over the things left unsaid. </p><p>“We have to resume work” he says simply and you nod, a bit crestfallen.</p><p>Then suddenly he pulls on your chair with the other hand, bringing you closer to him. He leans in and you meet him halfway kissing him softly. When you part from him, you catch yourself before you beg unabashedly for him to stay, because you<em> can’t.</em> You have to check on Therese, make sure the program is ready to run and without interruption from Lucille or anyone else, and then even try to figure out how to pay for her <em>fucking</em> venture without implicating yourself along the way. </p><p>“We’ll be back in Seattle” Hotch says then, taking you out of your trance – interrupting the whole list your mind is compiling as excuses to not stay longer with him. </p><p>“Oh, I’m flattered” you tease and he kisses you again, catching your words in his mouth.  </p><p>He leans back in his chair, still holding your hand. There’s something he wants to say – something in his mind but he decides against it. </p><p>“Is it my father?” you ask. </p><p>He shakes his head.</p><p>“No, just a...” he looks down at your hands, then meets your eyes again, “a few loose threads with documentations and reports that Seattle PD jumbled up.” </p><p>“Aha” you breathe out, feeling there’s something underneath the surface but not wanting to push. You also don’t want to ruin the comfort of this early morning – not when he has to leave so soon. </p><p>“Well,” you start, “you know where you can find me – and my house is better than a motel” </p><p>He chuckles, “Oh, Dave will be over joyed with your invitation” </p><p>And you stand up, letting go of his hand only after you straddle him over the chair. He's for certain not comfortable – not as much as the bed had been but he has no complaints as he looks up at you, warm hands sinking under the hem over your dress, reaching up for your thighs.  </p><p>He tastes like sugar-honey cereal, tooth-rotting sweet and burning your tongue but you wouldn’t have it any other way.  </p><p>When you watch him get into his SUV, with a promise that Penelope will contact you on how to proceed with paying for Clover – your relationship feels <em>too</em> precarious. Like you’re looking down at a treacherous slope<em>. </em> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey all!! thnx for reading!💕💕<br/>as always lemme know what y'all think!💕</p><p>whatchu think is gonna happen next? 👀</p><p>(fair warning its gonna be angst from now on lmao since some stuff are left unsaid)</p><p>(also the whole thing with Clover was inspired by this article on the most evil tech companies doing the most harm and it's loosely based on this actual (!!!) fucking company that apparently protects very harmful websites from being detected)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Soft Currents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A murder in a yacht, a sudden confrontation, and the truth starting to unravel - all in the span of 24 hours.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey im back :)))<br/>thnx for the patience guyss 💕<br/>Back with a v long one, and yes murder is back on the menu!! </p><p>(NO EDITING bcs we die like men - no seriously i wrote this in a hurry and didnt check it at all im sorryy. if you see anything weird just close an eye and the writing will be digestible lmao)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“How long will this take, Garcia?” </p><p>It’s the third time Hotch repeats that question in the span of time he’s been in her office. This time, Garcia glares at him over her cheetah-print glasses, before she continues typing more aggressively. He watches her do her magic in mock patience, but curiosity has gotten to him more than he can admit aloud.</p><p>As soon as he’d received that text message from her stating she’d identified the remaining three men – he'd been at home, making his ritualistic coffee before leaving, and he’d dropped everything, hurrying to his car – his mind had been racing. It is even now, as he watches Garcia type away, trying to restructure the information she’d found. </p><p>“Jerry Maltese” she says, and the first guy’s photo pops up on the screen above her – and Hotch moves to see his face, scouring his brain in the meantime trying to remember if he’d seen the man around at the Clover event or at the racetracks. </p><p>“We have our second guy – Patrick Baker – a real hoot, this one.” </p><p>Another guy appears on the screen, and his photo is from a driving license document, and he has a permit for every single vehicle type. </p><p>“Guess if you’re rich might as well, right?” Garcia says, smirking at Hotch, who doesn’t react at all. </p><p>“And the third is the one who I couldn't find much about – Faye Watson. He’s been very much under the radar – luckily though he was a big rugby player in high school so it took me forever to find a photo to match his.” </p><p>Hotch looks at the three men’s photos side by side, and then back to the other screen where Garcia had scanned the photo he’d found at your house. </p><p>“Where are they residing?” he asks. </p><p>“Oh, right” she pulls up their home ownership documents and sales records, together with a small map she’d hashed out of every man on the photo – all spread around Washington. </p><p>“They’re in Seattle apart from Maltese who’s been –in jail for the last 2 years.” </p><p>Seems to be the pattern – Hotch realizes. First, that first guy who’d been questioned for a plausible link with the drug cartels and then this one for - </p><p>“What for?” Hotch asks. </p><p> But Garcia doesn’t need a cue as she draws up the prison records in the big screen. Jerry Maltese has a 5 years sentence for tax fraud – Hotch reads.  </p><p>“Okay, Garcia. Could you compile everything you found on these men?” </p><p>She nods, “already doing it as we speak.” </p><p>A message pops up on her screen and Garcia reads it with a small smile. Which reminds him – </p><p>“Did you get in touch-“ </p><p>“Yes” she cuts him off, “we came up with a new account which wouldn’t get linked directly to her – I made sure it’s untraceable and anonymous. So, she paid the sum without it being redirected to her. She just confirmed the payment.” </p><p>“Good. Great job, Garcia” </p><p>Hotch walks back to his office. After landing in Quantico, he’s spent the last two days with the BAU team discussing on Maria Gratta, and trying to find any potential links between the men, which meant they started looking in depth at Nathan Anderson as well. The whole Anderson family in fact – had been under their scrutiny since they returned. Though they’d still came up with nothing substantial. </p><p>Garcia follows him back into the conference room shortly after, and she takes over the remote control, in order to give them a small resume of the three men she’d been researching. </p><p>“Jerry Maltese” she starts, and they all turn on their tablets to the face of the first men – all apart from Reid who’s flipping through the papers she’s printed for him. </p><p>“38 years old, he is a U.S attorney for Washington and politician. Prior to serving as Attorney General, Maltese was a member of the King County Council. He’s registered with the Washington Association of Prosecuting Attorneys. He was caught 2 years ago for tax evasion and fraud – it should have been everywhere on the news but he managed to keep it hush” </p><p>“You think he paid the media?” Prentiss says, “That means he has a lot of influence” </p><p>“He’s a politician, obviously” Rossi states, letting the word hang out there. “So far, we have an attorney general, a retired police officer, Black who was a creep and serial gambler, Gunn who was a friend of the drug cartels, a tech genius, and what more-?” </p><p>Reid nods at his words, “Could be a corruption scheme? Since most of them seemed to have loose ties with the government.” </p><p>Garcia switches to the other man. </p><p>“Faye Watson, 35 years old, he was very under the radar same as Black had been. I found only that the Watsons have that same reputation as the Rockefellers and the Rothschilds – they funded and run several art institutions in Washington and abroad. I couldn’t find much about him apart that he was the chairman at the Foster/White Gallery.” </p><p>“Add an art investor to that list as well -” Morgan chimes in looking at Dave. </p><p>“The last one is Patrick Baker – another member of the elite but less prestigious. He has stocks in automobile manufacturers and owns several of them” </p><p>Garcia concludes the presentation with the photo of the last man, and Hotch gives her a court nod and she joins them in the conference table, taking a seat. </p><p>“We’d profiled the unsub as someone going after any rich man” Prentiss says, “If we hadn’t found out that she had no sexual motive to the murders we would have been back to square one – probably never even caught her.” </p><p>“They attended a few schools together” Reid voices aloud, while he’s still skimming through the pages with information. “If they’re a group of like-minded people and similar to Nathan Anderson, could be that several of them formed the group first and then others joined later.” </p><p>“Someone must have been a recruiter then” Morgan says. “You don’t just find psychopaths through google search.” </p><p>“Unless you’re incredibly adept in tracing people through technology” Rossi adds, leaning back on his seat. “Nathan Anderson was deemed a genius – he could have helped create the system for Brook’s.” </p><p>“Could it have been created by him, Garcia?” Hotch asks. </p><p>She tilts her head thinking it over, “I mean, I am familiar with his work in the field but I have to do an in-depth analysis to confirm that it was his signature.” </p><p>“He did have the advantage for it and it explains why they’re all such high-profile individuals – he used his status to find only people pertaining to the same social standing” Reid adds thoughtfully. </p><p>JJ’s phone starts ringing and she picks it up, standing up at once to not interrupt their discussion. Hotch follows her with his gaze as she exits to the hall. Her face breaks into a frown and the phone call doesn’t last long. </p><p>“Seattle Police Department just called with an official request for collaboration – someone was murdered in a yacht at an evening party in Puget Sound.” </p><p>The others turn to her, questions in their looks. </p><p>“A party on a yacht?” Dave repeats, “That doesn’t sound like a work for us.” </p><p>“The victim is Patrick Baker” she says, and they all look at her wide-eyed. “They think it’s connected to the previous murders, maybe another copycat like in New York.” </p><p>“Good thing Garcia identified everyone before this moment then.” he rebuts. </p><p>“Is every attendee being held for questioning?” Hotch asks. </p><p>“Yes” JJ says, still holding her phone, “the party was for the elite.” </p><p>For the first time in his professional career, Hotch ignores information – solely because he can’t allow his mind to think about the possibility of you having attended that same event. </p><p>“How was he murdered?” </p><p>“He’s been stabbed.” she says, “but there were bullet holes in the premises. They’ll send the appropriate documentation ASAP” </p><p>“Okay” Hotch says, and the others take their cue without waiting for his explicit direction as they start gathering their things. “Wheels up in 10” </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You should have stayed home – that had been your feeling as soon as you’d gotten out of you</p><p>r car and seen the small bridge from the Shilshole Bay Marina leading to the yacht still anchored. You don’t like the sea – whether open seas or not, you’d never been a great fan. The lake was different. Growing up and living in the Ozarks for most of your life had made the lake a part of your geography of living. When you’d found out Seattle had more than one – it made it feel like home, like the place to be.</p><p>And it was partly why relocating from New York to Seattle had been easy. Nathan had been ecstatic as well after finding out and had indulged you through trips and stays at the Green lake and elsewhere. And you’d even talked about a second home at Lake Sammamish, Issaquah, once you’d gotten married. It had just made sense – you loved your husband and you loved the lake.  </p><p>But that was then and this is<em> now</em> – and you’re about to spend a whole night in the open sea with people who had been a part of Nathan’s social circle. You brush your hands down fixing your dress as it hangs from your waist and drapes loosely over your legs – until your fingers touch the knife tucked inside the thigh holster hidden underneath. Boarding a boat with people who worshipped Nathan and the Anderson family doesn’t mean you’re going to blindly trust everyone.</p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>“Here’s the official invitation and list of attendees” JJ says, sitting across from Hotch on the plane. ” Seattle PD just emailed it.” </p><p>They open the files in their respective tablets, and Hotch skims through it with quick eyes rivalling even those of Reid.  </p><p>“There’s a quite a few names we’ve stumbled upon” Rossi says by his side. “Most of these are quite famous as well.” </p><p>And Hotch’s heart is at his throat, hoping silently that you hadn’t been there, because then you’d easily become a suspect for Seattle PD. He can’t bear the thought of questioning you again – not when he’d needlessly spent a large amount of time accusing you of the murder of your husband.</p><p>A small part of him – the one who’s memorialized and reminisces with carnal longing your night together – worries over your emotional and physical state too. If you’re doing okay, or if you’re hurt or scared; if the journalists are harassing you already, or if you’d been handled roughly by the police. </p><p>“Both men are in this list: Faye Watson and Patrick Baker” Reid states. </p><p>Hotch scans the last page of the document and that small part of him grows in size – those questions taking over his entire mind as he sees your name in the list of attendees. </p><p>Rossi casts him a look, noting Hotch’s sharp intake of breath. His eyes ask a question, and Hotch nods in reply, unable to form proper words. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>The bartender hands you your drink – an Old Fashioned garnished with maraschino cherries – and you thank him. It’s only 45 minutes in and you’re already on your second drink. The first one had been nursed for a few moments once inside, until people had started to approach you and greet you amicably, asking nonchalantly about your plans for the year – any planned trips or holidays.</p><p>An attempt to get you to admit that: <em>no, you wouldn’t travel this year, since you have to make a decision on how to oversee the Anderson Tech Industry, </em><em>and if you're possibly considering  </em> <em> delegating it to someone</em><em> else. </em>  </p><p>The host, Ruby Walker, is an entrepreneur, new-money rich as you’d call it, and her 61.95 meter charter has a dockside for events and an audio system providing music to all decks. There’s a game table being used for poker, while the main saloon bar is the ideal setting for pre and post dinner cocktails (per her welcoming statement). Her exact words had been: </p><p>“Please feel free to use the glass elevator from the entrance lobby to head up to the party.” </p><p>And it’s enough to carry 100 guests apparently, but she’s invited only 40 which is a relief considering other massive yachts that can hold up to 350 guests. You can’t imagine the horror that’d be – finding yourself with no means of escaping, surrounded by more people or even Lucille, who luckily isn’t here.  </p><p>You look to your left – the poker table inside the saloon where the party seems louder, seven people playing while almost double that circles them, exclaiming <em>oohs</em> and <em>aahs</em> whenever someone makes an exciting move. You croak back a laugh which freezes when a man stands up in victory. He’s large, broad-shouldered, donning a white suit and head thrown back as he laughs in victory. You’ve never met him before but you’ve seen him – from the photo in Nathan’s office.</p><p>Your brain snaps into flight response, darting out of the room before you register what you’re doing. You’re out of the hallway, into the elevator and back into the lobby, your drink still in your hand. And the distance works at bringing you back into your body. You'd never thought about the possibility of running into Nathan's group of friends. It had never occurred to you, even as you continued attending the same events that they probably did as well.</p><p>You head out to the side deck with your drink, feeling calm after leaving the happy-go-lucky crowd. You perch your elbows over the railing and look out to the Seattle skyline in the night, lights shining bright and already far away. The only reason you’re out tonight is the same one from many years ago when you’d decided to relocate to Seattle – <em> loneliness</em>.</p><p>Back then it had been a futile attempt to prove to yourself you can be different from your father, and even from your mother. That you were able of building a life for yourself with people who understood and loved you, and it had been the only focus of your life, no matter what those people were really like.  </p><p>Under the light of the moon and the low fairy lights hanging from the ceiling of the deck, while looking out to the stars and the city – you're lonely for a multitude of other reasons. The house in Seattle is another type of prison, encasing both your body <em>and </em>mind. But you <em>c</em><em>an'</em><em>t  </em> leave – not without finding out the truth about Clover, not without getting rid of the fortune Nathan had left you.</p><p>And in true <em>masochistic</em> fashion you can’t move out because it is the one place Hotch can find you – where you <em>still  </em>want him to find you. Because you want to <em>help</em>.</p><p>You <em>still </em>want to help<em>, </em>like a delusional madman. </p><p>“You seem to be as bored as me”  </p><p>A man joins you at your left – his voice making you turn. He’s a bit taller than you, and he’s got a full head of hair, curly and long arriving to the nape of his neck, and green eyes. And you stare, not because he’s attractive but because you’d memorized the face of every man from that photo from Nathan’s office. The corner of his lips twitches up, taking it to mean something completely different from your silence and your wondering eyes. </p><p>This time you don’t run away.  </p><p>“Pardon me, I should have introduced myself – Patrick" he extends his hand for you to shake and you straighten up, at a loss for words. You shake his hand hesitantly, and you’re grateful for the alcohol otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to collect yourself this fast. </p><p>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am-” </p><p>“I know who you are, Miss Anderson” he says, his grip on your hand a bit too firm, before he lets go “and it’s delightful to finally make your acquaintance.” </p><p> You take a sip of your drink, glancing out to the side.</p><p><em>Does </em><em>this</em><em> man know you because of Nathan?  </em>Did <em>your husband</em> discuss <em>you</em> in his tiny little organization he apparently had? </p><p>“<em>Finally</em>,” you repeat coldly, “Have you been waiting for long?” </p><p>“A good amount” he smiles, “Nathan was smart to keep his beautiful wife away from his troublesome friends.” </p><p>You grimace, feeling uncomfortable at the indirect compliment. </p><p>“Friends he never spoke about” you state, and he laughs. </p><p>“Sounds like him –” he shoves his hands in his pockets, “he was also keen on keeping different parts of his life apart from one another” </p><p>There's a hidden question in his vague statement. A test directed to you in order to gauge your reaction and see if you knew about Nathan’s secret. You keep your face neutral, not letting him catch either a yes or a no. </p><p>“As do I”  </p><p>He smiles, turning to the view from the side deck. He goes silent as he watches the skyline, and the Space Needle, getting smaller by the distance, while you lean your back to the railing. More than 5 minutes pass in silence before he speaks again. </p><p>“You seem bored” he says casually, as if he’s stating simple facts. “Choosing to stay alone rather than joining the party inside.” </p><p>Leaning your elbows back over the railing in the posture he’d caught you in, you don’t let your guard down as you continue this conversation. </p><p>“I’m not a fan of the sea” you admit after another sip of your drink. “You?” </p><p>He nods in understanding. </p><p>“I don’t like talking formally and I hate doing business meetings and the whole schmoozing process” </p><p>“You addressed <em>me</em> formally” you remind him without looking at him.</p><p>Your entire body feels pulled taut, ready to snap as you wait for him to ask or say something in regards to Nathan or his past life. But he doesn’t. When you take another sip, you do so turned to him, taking it as an advantage to study his posture and clothing. He's wearing sneakers not dress shoes, and he doesn’t have the signature expensive watch and rings as the other men in high society do. His hands are large, covering the railing almost and calloused – from as much as you can see under the decorative lights above head. That means he works with his hands, making him a bit more different than the other privileged men you’ve come to know in the last 2 years. </p><p>“You’re not shy” he says, glancing at you. </p><p>“Excuse-me?” </p><p>“You’ve been staring at me since I joined you.” </p><p>“A man I’ve never met just told me he knows me and<em> nothing else </em>– I don’t feel it necessary to apologize for being curious.” </p><p>He tilts his head to you. </p><p>“What do you do, Patrick? And why did you want to meet me?” </p><p>He takes out a business card from the front pocket of his suit jacket, and holds it out to you. </p><p>“I’m from the Baker family, and we own a multitude of vehicle manufacturers across the U.S. I used to work with your husband.” </p><p>You flip the card in your free hand. </p><p>“And you wanted to meet me because you’re expecting me to continue the same business you’ve been doing for Anderson Tech?” </p><p>He shakes his head. “I wasn’t conducting business for Anderson Tech.” </p><p>You wait for him to continue. </p><p>“Nathan contracted me for SafeCity” </p><p>You blink at him in confusion.  </p><p>“SafeCity is an app that when activated in emergency situations it renders the phone to its most basic functions so when people feel in danger, they’re tracked by select contacts and the police. It does not need cars.” you recite. </p><p>“Precisely” he says. </p><p>You take a moment, letting his words sink in – because...<em> what</em><em>?</em>  Nathan had contracted cars at the disposal of the app? </p><p>“What do you mean?” you ask, your grip on the glass turning your knuckles white. </p><p>“I did not agree to Nathan’s requests – I only accepted because someone else would have done it instead. I blamed it to faulty deliveries, shipping and incapability of the drivers-” </p><p>Your mind is reeling, trying to digest his words. </p><p>“He wanted to create a fleet with cars to help the women and send them home?” you ask, but you know it as well that it is a rhetorical question.  </p><p>“He wanted a fleet” he corrects, cutting the sentence short. “I have wanted to reach out to you since I learned his true intentions.” </p><p>“I- I don’t understand. What are you saying?” </p><p>“The cars weren’t meant to take women back home.” </p><p> </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch halts, realizing something before he storms inside the police department building with the others. It’s 11am and 5 hours and some in flight after JJ had received that call from Seattle PD – but he’s lucid and sharp. Dave stops as well. </p><p>“Aaron,” he says softly, a hand over Hotch’s shoulder. “I know you’re worried.” </p><p>He sees the others far ahead turn to look at him, once they note he’s not following. He gives them a go ahead, not wanting them to overhear whatever Dave is about to imply. </p><p>“Dave, I’m not worried.” </p><p>His friend ignores his words.  </p><p>“<em>She’s</em> going to be fine -”  </p><p>He’s not concerned about you – despite those questions continuing to rattle inside his brain.  </p><p>“Some of those people have already seen me in the racetracks and even in the hotel and they thought I was her plus one – <em>not an FBI agent</em>. If they recognize me then they’ll know the FBI has been following them. It’d make them all go into hiding or worse.” </p><p>Dave nods. “You’re right. What it is you need me to do?” </p><p>“Take over this investigation. Separate the others for questioning. Pay special attention to Faye Watson. Have Reid meet me once you’ve cleared everyone so we can head back to the crime scene.” </p><p>“Okay. I will. What will you do?” Dave asks.  </p><p>“I’ll get in touch with Garcia. Call me when you’ve narrowed your suspects for questioning.” </p><p>Dave pats his arm and Hotch watches him head inside. When he’s back in his car, he takes out his cell phone. He hadn’t contacted you since New York and you hadn’t reached out either. Both of you had gotten a wakeup call once in your respective cities – realizing the magnitude of your actions. It’s as if the two of you had come to an unspoken agreement to never address what happened.</p><p>It had worked for him perfectly – he'd continued life as per usual. And he hopes you’d been doing the same, unaffected by the last time you’d seen each other. He parks the car at a diner not too far from the department, remaining in close proximity in case the others need him, and takes a booth in a far-away corner, windows looking out to the police department building.  </p><p>He finishes a quick call with Garcia, giving her directions to do an internet deep-dive into the attendees, and JJ lets him know he’ll print documents and bring them to him so he can work old-school like Reid does. Then he stares at the phone for 5 minutes, thumb hovering over the call button of your phone number.</p><p>He’s not <em>worried</em>, as Rossi had said. But he’s <em>something, </em>because he can’t think of a single thing to say. It’s not that he’s seeking words of comfort to offer to you. He’s scrambling for <em>any  </em>words at this point.  </p><p><em> It’s simple </em>  – Hotch  realizes then – he’s<em> just never had a one-night stand before</em>.</p><p>He doesn’t know the proper procedure, just like you’d said to him once. He’d never slept with someone just out of pure lust – there’d only been dating, relationships then marriage for him. He’d  been with other girls in university back when Haley and him had gone through a particular rough patch – but <em>even</em> then, the dates had been recurrent, not a one-time thing.</p><p><em>Even</em> then, he knew he was going to marry Haley, and he’d been back with her like time had never passed, like they’d never been apart.</p><p>But he doesn’t know what <em>this, with you,</em> is.</p><p>Had<em> this been a one-time thing? Does it fall into the mathematics of a one-night stand?  </em>He shakes his head, feeling like he’s slowly turning into Reid. His phone buzzes in his hand, notifying him of a new text message. </p><p><em> You: Roger is here. </em> </p><p>Then another one. </p><p><em> You: He remembers you – I hope he doesn’t see you. </em> </p><p>There’s the tiniest smile on his face at seeing you’d had the same thought of not letting your undercover work be discovered. </p><p><em> You: He’s such vermin. He’s offering to get everyone lawyered up – this </em><em>motherf </em> <em> - </em> </p><p>He types back in a rush: <em>As a Clover tactic for recruitment? </em> </p><p><em> You: I don’t know but most probably. </em> </p><p>He calls Dave, informing him of your news (bypassing completely the man’s questions on how he even knows about it), and then Garcia, asking her if it is possible to track Roger’s phone, and his recent calls. It’s not until he’s done with every phone call many minutes later that he notices the last message. </p><p><em> You: Glad you’re back, despite the circumstances. </em> </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p>The yacht feels like a liminal place – hazy and blurry in the corners of your field of vision, and the night is pitch black dark and Seattle looks too far out of reach, seeming like another galaxy altogether. It’s not because of the alcohol because you’ve stopped drinking since meeting Patrick Baker – but because of what he’d said. Your stomach had been a rumble, knotting painfully and leaving you drained.</p><p>It’s how you end up in the lobby, the only quiet place of the yacht, staring at the glass elevator. The sound of laughter from the main deck upstairs carries down. It’s all too much. You’re also getting seasick, nausea swimming around your belly, threating to hurl out of your throat. You plop down in one of the sun pads and rethink Patrick’s words. And it’s weird but you feel more reassured in the <em>decision</em> you’d made a year and a half ago. </p><p>“- you think you can just take over? It’s not your job Patrick!” </p><p>“It’s none of your business what I do!” </p><p>You freeze, standing as still as possible as you hear the angry male voices ringing out in the space around you. The music from the audio system is loud enough to muffle their noises to the world inside but not here, where you are.  </p><p>“You will pay for this, Patrick!” </p><p>You still, as you hear stomping getting further away, then another set of footsteps following close behind.  </p><p>Guess, Patrick is not a fan favorite in this boat. </p><p>You thank the lords that you’re inside the main deck, had been for the last hour, surrounded by many eyes, hunched over the bar, in an unlady-like way as you drink bottles of water one after the other to sober up and hydrate yourself – when you hear the screams from below deck. Police watercrafts arrive at the same time when you head with the crowd to the source of the screams. Your nausea surfaces once more, seeing the bloody corpse of Patrick Baker on the ground, in front of the glass elevator. </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch follows Reid inside the yacht, his plastic gloves on as he holds himself upwards with his hands against the wooden walls.  </p><p>“It’s a RoMa yacht” Reid says as he stops in front of the glass elevator, the chalk outline of the body a few feet away.  </p><p>“Rental is about $300.000 per night” </p><p>There’s bullet holes in the space around: three in fact. One pierces the glass of the elevator at eye level. The other is on the ground floor, and the last one to the door that leads outside. </p><p>“They shot from up the stairs but never hit him once” Hotch says. </p><p>“So, they’re not a sharpshooter” Reid adds. </p><p>Hotch eyes the blood on the scene, dried up but enough so they can both see that the stabbing had been the cause of death.  </p><p>Morgan and Prentiss had confirmed after getting back from the M.E. It’s a crime of passion – they all know it. They just need to interview everyone on that boat to find out who it had been. </p><p>“It can’t be a coincidence that Watson and Baker were both in here” Morgan says behind them, “and only Baker is dead.” </p><p>“What are you thinking?” Hotch asks, turning to face him.  </p><p>“All the men on that photo are either dead, in prison or missing – leaving only Watson alive.” </p><p>“You’re thinking there was some kind of rivalry” Hotch says and the other agent nods. </p><p>“I think Watson killed for a promotion” </p><p> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You’d informed the police officers of what you’d heard and seen all evening but they’d been morose and too stubborn to actually listen. They’d just stuck you inside of an interrogation room and you were drained – after <em>everything</em>.</p><p>Your body had definitely given up after the long night they made everyone spend inside. Leaving you with no food and no attention was a go-to move to render you restless and confess – you knew this already. But you just felt desperate. Then the interrogation rooms had become sparse so they’d escorted you out to question the others. You’d taken advantage of the water dispenser then –and even gotten back your belongings, after they’d confirmed your alibi in the moments where the murder had occurred.  </p><p>It’s 11 am when you see Agents Morgan and Reid walk in – the sight of them like a mirage after being stranded in the desert for too long. Then Agent Prentiss and JJ follow through, and you shoot up, pinching yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming.</p><p>There’s too many people shuffling around, too many civilians for them to notice you, but you’re not even paying attention at them as your eyes remain fixed on the doors. But nobody else comes in. You sit down reluctantly, then Agent Rossi steps inside and you exhale, feeling relieved. The BAU is really here – Hotch<em> is here. </em> </p><p>You stand up again, shoving past a few people from the yacht, and pass through until you’re face to face with Agent Rossi. He takes one look at you and his eyebrows shoot up. </p><p>“You look like you’ve been through hell” </p><p>“I have” you reply with a small smile, “I got seasick” </p><p>He nods, not exactly smiling or laughing but keeping a respectful distance as his eyes roam around the space. It doesn’t even occur to you until now, how weird it must look if you’re friendly with federal agents. You’re quick to throw out a rebuttal even if you’re still running on slow motion. </p><p>“I have rights” you say loudly than before so the others can hear. “You cannot keep us here with no food or water. This is against our human rights.” </p><p>Agent Rossi gives you the tinniest nod, before stepping back. Your voice gets the attention of the others as well. You glance at the doors one last time before crossing your arms before your chest, huffing out like a spoiled bratt. </p><p>“Ma'am, please calm down.” Agent Rossi says in that same volume, acting along with you. “You’ll be back to your caviar meal in no second. Stand back and let us do our jobs” </p><p>You roll your eyes –<em> caviar, really?  </em> </p><p>“<em>Fine</em>. I guess-” you raise your voice, giving the best performance of your life, and remember what would help them in their investigation “-the quicker we are to inform you about what happened – the faster we can leave!” </p><p>You see in your periphery a few people nodding, as they quietly return to their sitting places. Agent Rossi winks at you before joining the rest of his team. </p><p> </p><p>---  </p><p> </p><p>It’s almost 30 minutes later, as you’re almost dozing off in the stiff chair you’d been planted on since you left the interrogation room, when you hear Roger’s aggravating voice. He’s inside, shouting at people that they have the right to request a lawyer – and you scoff.</p><p>None of the police officers around mind him as they’re too busy with the murder of the century. And there’s no other agent around. Yet you know that if he’s around, solving the murder will take longer than necessary. It’s without a second thought that you take out your phone and text Hotch, informing him of his presence and reminding him that Roger will blabber if he finds out Hotch is a fed.  </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>It takes forever before you’re called back in the interrogation room – Agent Rossi on the other side of the table. You sit back down but the door doesn’t close before Agent Prentiss pops in with a large takeout bag. She drops the bag in front of you and the smell of food wafts through the air, your stomach rumbling aggressively. You look at both of them teary-eyed and Agent Rossi nods, smiling. </p><p>“Please,” he says, motioning at you to go ahead. And you tear through the bag. “We need your mind to work in order to remember and recount what happened.” </p><p>You’re already chewing into the sandwich you find inside, nodding at his words. </p><p>“Sorry-” you mumble, cheeks full with food, “I’m listening.” </p><p>“Did you know Patrick Baker?” he asks.  </p><p>You swallow the food, clearing your mouth before speaking.  </p><p>“Not before tonight. He approached me to tell me -” </p><p>You bite your tongue- </p><p>“-that I’m beautiful” you finish, and technically it’s not a lie. “He told me he knew my husband, introduced himself and then asked me out. In that order.” </p><p>Agent Rossi nods. “You recognized him from the photo” </p><p>“I did” you say through another bite, “It’s why I rejected him” </p><p>“Did you know if anyone had anything against him?” </p><p>You take a sip of water from your plastic cup, pushing down the food. </p><p>“I told the other police officers as well – I got seasick so I was out at the sun deck. I heard him talk to another man.” </p><p>You relay the words they’d exchanged and Agent Rossi signals the people behind the one-way glass. Agent Prentiss walks in few seconds later right as you finish the last bite from the sandwich. </p><p>“Can you clear the next room? Get everyone out including Watson and the other service men of the boat. We’ll do a lineup with Hotch.” </p><p>She nods, heading back out. You brush your hands off from crumbs, your heart doing a summersault at<em> his</em> name. </p><p>“We have a few suspects and we’ll have you hear them speak again and see if you recognize them.” </p><p> </p><p>- </p><p> </p><p>It’s the first time you’re on the other side of the glass - looking out to where the suspects stand in a dark room and facing the wall rather than the glass, to keep their identity ambiguous. They want you to focus your energies on your sense of hearing – that's what Agent Rossi tells you. It’s the first time you’re not stuck inside an interrogation room, and the first for being a material witness as well. </p><p>“I want you to close your eyes” Agent Rossi says and you do as he suggests. “Just focus on what you heard. The exact words.” </p><p>You nod, taking a deep breath in and out – catching the hinges of the door screeching at his side as the door opens and closes, then nothing. You can smell the salt in the air while the yacht moves in the open sea. The talk with Patrick had been brief yet his words are stuck on your brain. He’d smelled of cigarettes and petrol too – that same way car repair shops in Ozark smell like whenever you'd take your old truck to the mechanic. Patrick's words ring around your brain.</p><p>
  <em> The cars weren’t to take women back home.</em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “ </em>Focus on his words.” Agent Rossi says, pulling you out before your mind can start spiraling. “What did Patrick say, exactly?” </p><p>“He said <em>It’s none of your business what I do</em>.” you repeat aloud, eyes still closed, feeling just now the presence of another person in the room – but it doesn’t alarm you. </p><p>“Okay. What did the other person say to that?” Agent Rossi asks. </p><p>“<em>You will pay for this, Patrick</em>” </p><p>There’s a small click of a button and then Hotch’s voice fills the room, echoing in the space on the other side of the glass.</p><p>It makes you open your eyes at once – caught by his sudden appearance. </p><p>“Number 1, could you please say: you will pay for this Patrick.” </p><p>Agent Rossi studies your face, and Hotch turns too – your gaze fixed on his. The first suspect speaks and you shake your head, his voice unfamiliar. Hotch leans forwards, repeating the same instruction to the next one.  </p><p>He’s wearing a grey suit and red tie – looking a bit too much like the first time you’d met, and it clashes with the last memory you'd stored fondly of him at the condo. </p><p>“No” you say, after hearing the second voice. </p><p>“Number three” Hotch calls out through the mic.</p><p>This time he glances back at you as he switches off the mic.</p><p>When your eyes meet it’s as if the entire room stills at once – the small buzzing from the adjacent room gone, Agent Rossi’s foot tapping over the tile floors faded. Hotch brushes his knuckles against the underside of his chin, his neck craning up and your breath hitches in your throat – remembering how his hands had felt over your skin, how his smell was overwhelming right on the crook of his neck.</p><p>Those feelings from the condo have never left. The distance and lack of contact have solely amplified them. </p><p>“Did you hear what I said?” Hotch repeats again and you snap out of it.  </p><p>“Excuse-me?” </p><p>He scoffs, face pulled into a scowl. “We’re trying to find a murderer here” he says with a bite. “Could you keep your head on for 5 minutes?” </p><p>You cock an eyebrow –<em>did he wake up on the wrong side of the bed today? </em>  </p><p>“I am here helping, aren’t I, Agent? What else do you expect me to do?” </p><p>He shakes his head, turning to the view from the one-way mirror. </p><p>“I asked if it’s number three.” </p><p>“No.” you say, crossing your arms over your chest – hating yourself for thinking about your night together at this moment, and more so for<em> missing it,</em> especially when he's back to acting like a dick. </p><p>“Number Four – please, like the others.” </p><p>And what’s his problem, either way? Could he not speak in a more adequate manner – and politely, like normal people? </p><p>“Could you repeat it louder?” Hotch instructs again.</p><p>He seems well – like he’s never thought about New York, unlike you who’d replayed that night even in dreams.</p><p>Why is Hotch always the only one who never falters – never shows any emotion, and treats you hot and cold and you still let him get away with it?</p><p>Every time. </p><p>“...<em>for this, Patrick</em>.” </p><p>You whip your head around, to where the suspects are lined up – looking at the man who spoke. His dark silhouette is large, broad-shouldered, resembling faintly the man you’d seen from the poker table. </p><p>“It’s him” you say aloud. “I remember his voice.” </p><p>Hotch pays no mind to you as he turns his focus to the other agent. </p><p>“Morgan and you can take over Watson’s questioning.” </p><p>Before you even realize what is happening, you’re escorted out, as are the other suspects. You take a seat outside, standing in that same spot for what feels like two whole hours before Hotch stops in front of you. </p><p>“I’ll drive you home” he says – his words and actions now more shocking than his attitude inside the room.</p><p>You agree either way, because you’re more used to him snapping at you than the version of him you’d witnessed in New York. </p><p>The drive is silent, neither of you daring to interrupt the peace. His driving is careful and the car moves slow, much slower than the speed limit – you note it more than a few times as you pass three signs and see the cars overpassing you. As a result, the drive home takes longer than normal times, <em>much</em> longer, as if he wants to extend the time before dropping you off.</p><p>He parks the car in the back, on your driveway and stops right where the yard and the swimming pool starts. Hotch turns off the car engine, letting out a breath as the silence grows heavier. You expect it to change into discomfort, but it doesn't.</p><p>“How are you?” he asks softly, keeping his head straight.</p><p>You breathe out as well, his question and voice making you let go at once all those turbulent feelings that had overtaken you from being inside the police department.  </p><p>“I’m okay”  </p><p>“You witnessed a murder” he says. </p><p>“I didn’t” you say slowly – you hadn’t seen, heard or even been anywhere near the crime scene.</p><p>And you realize that someone like him - who's been around victims and their families all his professional life - expects you to be shaking, and crying, any visible sign that you're affected from being near a murder, like some women at the precinct had been. Yet you feel nothing but steady.</p><p>“And I <em>am</em> okay. Just tired. You?” </p><p>Hotch looks at you – a small sideways glance before he turns to look ahead. </p><p>“Nobody saw me” he says, completely ignoring your question. “Roger didn’t-” </p><p>“I’m not asking about that, Hotch” you interrupt. “<em>Jesus.</em> I don’t give a rat’s ass what Roger has been up to” </p><p>He meets your eyes then, turning his body slightly in the seat so he faces you. His frown transforms quickly into a neutral, amused expression. For a beat you just stare at each other without reservation, rebuilding that small world you’d created in New York just for the two of you.</p><p>You allow yourself the time to take him in: from the small lines of exhaustion on his face to the grip of his hands over the steering wheel – as he does the same with you, eyes perusing the white dress you've had on since last night’s party.  </p><p>His gaze ends on your lap though, his hand reaching over to your side, and you’re breathless, anticipation bubbling up inside your chest, as time stops. His fingertips trace the length of your right thigh over the dress, stopping over your knee. He leans over the console, his hand cupping the hem of your dress pulling it up slowly, the heat of his touch seeping through the material.</p><p>Hotch looks up at you then, stopping once he’s completely uncovered your thighs.  </p><p>“I can explain...” you croak out, and he shakes his head. “I didn’t feel safe-” </p><p>His thumb taps softly the holster strapped around your right thigh – a small knife tucked inside. His eyes are dark, and there’s the tiniest smile on his lips. His fingers brush the inside of your thigh, and you inhale sharply, your legs parting on instinct, but you still, waiting for a reprimand or a loud rendition of the same words he’d said when he’d found you sneaking around knives the first time.  </p><p>“I would expect nothing else from you” he says, but it’s not a tongue-lashing.</p><p>If it weren’t for your own fear at what he must have been deducing, you’d have deciphered his look earlier on. But you do only once the pad of his thumb grazes the patch of skin over the holster, bypassing the cloth completely to touch you instead. You can't take it anymore - you suddenly want him on you, the desire to have his mouth on yours making your head spin. You cup the sides of his face and pull him in, crashing your lips with his, and he lets out a grunt inside your mouth.</p><p>His hand grips your thigh firmly with bruising force, his other hand diving to the nape of your neck, tilting your head, taking the reins in guiding the kiss. It’s urgent, messy and passionate and when you part for air, his mouth moves down to your neck, trailing wet hot kisses over your skin, your fingers diving into his hair. </p><p>“Hotch...” you gasp when his teeth graze your neck – the feeling having a direct correlation into increasing the heat between your legs, as his fingers over your thigh near it excruciatingly slow.</p><p>“<em>Please </em>” you plead, mouth falling open and eyes fluttering shut as his ministrations turn your breathing deep and loud. </p><p>At the word Hotch stops everything with a mischievous smile on his face – because you’d asked once if he wanted you to beg. And even through <em>that</em> - you’re not ready to plead shamelessly just yet. You try to regain your composure, but he's left your skin burning with heat.</p><p>So, you say the first thought that pops in your head.</p><p>“Can I offer you a cup of coffee inside my house?” you ask breathily.</p><p>“...<em>coffee </em>” he deadpans, face almost unreadable, but you recognize the tinge of amusement in his eyes. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He retracts his hands, leaning back against his seat. The sudden distancing makes you start rambling out excuses.</p><p>“Or water, or a lemonade, or a beer or a <em>whatever</em>. Take your pick.” </p><p>You bite your lip, almost blurting out<em> please </em>again. The word is at the tip of your tongue, wanting to spill out of you unconsciously. You’re bordering closer to saying the word aloud by the second. His voice is dipped in sarcasm as he answers.</p><p>“Okay. I’ll <em>humor</em> you” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi all thnx for making it through this long-ass chapter!! 💕💕<br/>I originally had planned to have a certain ~confrontation happen here but somehow this got out of my hands (and a murder happened instead! lol) and I wanted to dedicate the next chapter to that specifically. So, it has the space it deserves. (and nope it wont take me forever to update lmao)</p><p>Can you already sense what Nathan has done? 👀 theres a big hint in this text</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Make Up Your Mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The truth comes out in unexpected ways</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey all!<br/>I couldn't hold off on this chapter any longer (even tho slightly short) so im updating earlier lmao</p><p>TW: ~spice (and filthy a bit) and the start of ANGST</p><p>title from the song by Florence and the machine</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s very different in daylight. You’re extremely aware of yourself – your movements around the kitchen, your light footsteps as you go from picking up two cups from the cupboard to the coffee machine – which you turn on right away. Most of all you’re acutely aware of Hotch’s presence and tall figure.</p><p>Hotch – who is quiet and lingering by the door – because both of you know this isn’t about coffee at all. And although you’re quite experienced in that respect - being forward and bold at inviting people over – you feel like you’ve relinquished all control to him as soon as he stepped inside your house. </p><p>“Rossi said you knew Patrick” he says, leaning on the doorframe, following your fluent movements around the room.  </p><p>Maybe you feel this way because Hotch still has that stern look on his face that’s synonymous to his agent behavior. </p><p>“No. I said <em>met” </em> </p><p>He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. </p><p>“He introduced himself to me.” You continue, “Said he conducted business with my husband” </p><p>You hadn’t said this to Agent Rossi, but maybe it’s the shock of the night making you talk.  </p><p>“We identified all three of them” He moves towards the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden.</p><p>The coffee machine stops whirring, the first cup now full.  </p><p>There’s an unspoken question in his statement that leaves you vulnerable. </p><p>“I didn’t know any of them apart from Black, Hotch.” </p><p>He nods, and the second cup fills up too. You pick up both and walk to him, stopping near the kitchen island. When you offer him a mug, he gives you a strange look, eyebrows furrowing slightly, questioning if he’s misread your invitation, but he doesn’t say anything aloud as he takes the mug. You place yours over the kitchen island, and draw open the glass doors, letting the hot summer air inside. Opening up windows from one room to another had turned into a ritual and it helped at not letting the house feel stuffed and smell rotten.  </p><p>It’s the month of June and this entire day has felt like the hottest day of the season even though you’d spent most of it inside. You’d felt this same warmth last night, on the yacht, but the ocean air had helped dissipate it.</p><p>Now, in the afternoon, there’s little respite from the heat – the air moist and far from fresh, but enough to allow you to breathe with more ease than in the morning. The glare from the sun reflecting from the tiles outside is bright enough to hurt your eyes. </p><p>The leaves of the trees and plants in the garden remain unmoving, the only sounds are the buzzing of bees and the loud and dull chirping of crickets amongst the high grass – for which you have to remember to hire someone for.  </p><p>Your skin feels hot and your lungs can hardly fill up with needed oxygen – and it all increases exponentially when you feel Hotch move behind you.  </p><p>He’d watched you almost come undone in his SUV, with just a touch of his fingers over your thigh, and a soft kiss brushed over your neck. He’d faintly smelled the sea on you in the enclosed space of the car and he’s wanted to taste the salt lingering on your skin – that had been the only thought rattling around in his brain.</p><p>He’d forgotten everything about the night in New York and it being a simple one-night stand (that's how his rational mind had justified it). Had completely forgone his entire plans in the office when you’d invited him back inside for a coffee.  </p><p><em> Coffee</em> that’s now in his hands, making Hotch feel almost stupid. Had he longed for <em>something</em> to occur <em>so badly </em>that he’d misread the entire situation? He watches you now, standing before him, hot air wafting from the opened doors, and the patch of sunlight that hits you renders your dress almost see-through. He can see the outline of your figure underneath it, even the thigh holster where you’d strapped a knife on.</p><p>He’s a mere object, drawn to your gravitational force, his eyes fixed on the pulsating point on your neck, where he’d breathed the sea salt on your skin. </p><p>His hand brushes softly your cheekbone, picking a strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear, before trailing downwards to the nape of your neck, electricity sizzling on your skin at his touch. He plants a feather light kiss at the side of your exposed neck, eliciting the softest gasp from your mouth and you angle your head immediately to grant him better access. His hand continues down, following the curve of your back, the pads of his fingers light over the pearls of your spine.</p><p>Hotch’s barely touching you, and yet you still struggle to breathe, set alight from him. </p><p>His brain has registered every single noise parting from your lips – starting from that first night in the hotel, to New York where he’d wanted you to not hold back any longer. And he does it<em> even</em> now. It's maybe why he’s so stubborn in finding new ways to make you react – solely to watch you, <em>hear </em>you. </p><p>“I <em>do </em>want you to beg” he whispers over your ear, his lips grazing your earlobe, making you shiver with anticipation – answering the question you’d left hanging from your night in New York. His other arm circles around your midriff, pulling you to him without further warning, his hand stretching open, splaying over your ribcage, his thumb right over your breast. </p><p>“I want you to beg me to <em>fuck you</em>, right here, inside your kitchen”  </p><p>His brazen words leave you breathless – more so than the summer heat, the temperatures outside, or even the humidity. Your entire mind blanks once he kisses your neck again with more diligence, lavishing it with attention as he nips and licks bruises over your skin. It makes you light-headed, your hand squeezing his over your ribcage. </p><p>“Will you do it?” he asks, his hand on your back now suddenly under your chin, tilting your head so he can meet your eyes.</p><p>There’s no defiant bone left in your body, no opposition or smart rebuttals ready to throw back at him. You’re almost ready to beg even<em> now </em> – just so he can end the teasing prematurely, because you don’t know how much you can take, when the look in his eye makes him seem adamant at watching you fall apart. </p><p>“Yes” you breathe out.</p><p>He twists you around in the blink of an eye, the hem of your dress fluttering against your legs as he halts the movement once you face him. He pushes you back until you’re pressed flush against the glass – the cold surface making you whimper in contrast with your hot skin.  </p><p>He lurches forward, capturing your lips, kissing you hungrily and open-mouthed, his thigh between your legs pushing them apart. Your reaction is involuntary as soon as you feel his leg against your heat – arching your back and moving back and forth over his leg that continues pressing against you in perfect friction. His mouth never leaves yours, even as you’re reduced to panting, your lips and tongue clashing against his mindlessly as you chase your high desperately.</p><p>His hands on your hips encourage you further, moving you harder, fingers digging into your skin even through the material of your dress, while your hands struggle for purchase over his button-down, gathering it in your fists. As soon as your breathing gets more ragged and uncontrolled, he parts, pushing you back, leaving you cold and unsatisfied. There’s a smug look on his face, and you remember faintly his demand about<em> begging.  </em> </p><p>Fuck...</p><p>So, <em>this</em> is what he meant,<em> fuck.  </em> </p><p>You stare at him dumbly, frustrated and wild-eyed as his hands find the garment underneath your dress. You detach from the window, letting him yank it off you and discard it – keen on following even his unspoken orders. He kisses you chastely once, before leaning his weight back, straightening up. </p><p>“Open your mouth for me” he says, voice husky and authoritative, and his pupils are blown out already from your easy compliance of his every order.</p><p>You nod, obliging him without hesitation. You take two of his fingers inside your mouth as soon as he reaches forward, and you lick and twirl your tongue obscenely around them, coating them with spit.  </p><p>“<em>Good</em>, good girl” he drawls, his words shooting straight heat to your belly.</p><p>His other hand sinks below, bundles the material of your dress over your navel, the sight of that knife and holster strapped to your thigh increasing the knowing <em>ache</em> in him. And then, without warning, he <em>buries </em>his fingers where you need him most, carving out a small cry of pleasure from your throat. It doesn’t take long before you’re ready again, moving together with that same pace the two of you have learned to do through shared experience, and the word he’s been wanting to hear tumbles out of your mouth with ease and urgency.</p><p>Because you can’t fathom parting from him again.  </p><p>“<em>Please</em>” you  cry out softly, meeting his eyes, “<em>Hotch, please...” </em> </p><p>He kisses you fast and unruly, before mumbling an approval over your mouth, but that’s not what you want.</p><p><em>No </em> – not when he looks so breathtakingly handsome, still kept-together and in control while you’re a mess. You’re immensely wanton, yearning for the entirety of him. </p><p>“I want<em> you” </em> </p><p>The demand knocks the wind out of him, and your hands fumble for his belt, quickly pulling down the waistband of his pants. He sucks his fingers clean in a haste, and watching that simple filthy act increases the expanse of your desire for him. Suddenly and not waiting any longer, he<em> drives</em> into you again, in that way you’d wanted him too. His hand grips your right leg, pulling it up over his hip, his mouth latching over the spot where your neck and shoulder meet, while your hands scrape deliciously his scalp, eliciting groans of pleasure out him. His mouth and teeth on your shoulder and neck, emit cries out of you.</p><p>And even though still clothed with the hot air around you slightly unbearable - nothing else is on your mind but him. With everything he’d done beforehand, the hard and fast movements, and gravity dragging your body down perfectly over him, you reach your high first with a long-drawn-out whimper, louder than any noise outside, and he follows suit, panting breathily over your shoulder.</p><p>With a few kisses grazing your neck and cheek, he parts away, detaching from you and letting go gently. You’re overwhelmingly <em>spent </em>and blissful, only now feeling the burn on your back as you unstick yourself from the glass behind, foggy with the outline of you. </p><p>“<em>Fuck, Hotch. That was...”  </em>you exhale, drenched with sweat, the material of your dress over you like a second skin.</p><p>Hotch scrambles for clean towels inside kitchen counters as you make no effort to move further, even though your limbs feel heavy. There’s a wet spot on the thigh of his pants that he notes too, as he wets a towel on the kitchen sink. </p><p>“Sorry about that” you mumble, your voice not apologetic at all.</p><p>He glances back at your words and he relishes the image of you – flushed and skin shining with a thin layer of sweat, lips cherry-red and ripe from kissing. The sight of the marks he’s left on your neck and shoulder – visible now for everyone else to note, resurface his craving once again, but not as dizzying as it’d been before. Hotch returns with that same quiet confident smile on his face and kneels before you to wipe you clean with the towel. You suck in a breath, feeling the coldness and roughness of the textured cloth against you.  </p><p>When you’re all clean, he stands up, and you can’t help yourself – feeling overwhelming fondness and sweet bitterness at his careful movements – and you lunge forward reaching for him. With your hands gripping the collar of his button-down you bring him down with force, planting a bruising kiss over his mouth.</p><p>You expect him to push you away, or even step back, but he wraps his arms around your waist, hoisting you up with ease, returning the kiss with matching fervor. His hands fold your legs around his waist and he carries you to the kitchen table, sitting you down over it.  </p><p>He lets you go, parting away with a soft chuckle, which makes your heart expand. </p><p>“I’m not leaving you just yet,<em> my sweet girl </em>” </p><p>Your eyes go wide, the pet-name uttered outside of sex putting a damper to your mood at once, leaving you uncomfortable like a cold shower. He doesn’t catch your reaction though as he’s moved back to the kitchen island, picking up his coffee cup. Your heart drops to your stomach as everything rushes back – Nathan, Maria, even <em>this </em>exact kitchen where you’d caught him a year and a half ago.</p><p>The emotions Hotch had instilled in you are replaced with panic at once. You hop off the table on unsteady legs, and you watch him return with both cups of coffee you’d prepared – now cold. He’s as casual as he’d been the morning after in New York but his expression changes once he sees your pale face.  </p><p>“What’s wrong?” </p><p>But you can’t hear him – your eyes are stuck to a spot on the kitchen floor near the fridge. You’d watched Nathan torture Maria in this <em>same</em> room. And you’d just had sex with Hotch – <em>no</em>, the Agent who’s investigating you over your husband’s murder.  </p><p>How <em>unhinged </em>are you that you can have sex like nothing’s happened in this <em>same exact room </em>? </p><p>Nausea rises up your throat but you choke it down.  </p><p>“<em>Hey </em> – what’s wrong?” </p><p>Hotch reaches for your shoulder and your reaction is visceral, jolting away from his touch. There’s a flash of hurt crossing his eyes before he expertly hides it.  </p><p>“How’s your investigation going,<em> Agent</em>?” </p><p>“What?” His expression changes into a frown at your sudden switch in topic. </p><p>“Your investigation – how is it going?” </p><p>He takes a sip from his cup, putting it back down over the table. </p><p>“Sit down. I will tell you” </p><p>“No” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can hear you from here just fine.” </p><p>He mirrors your posture, leaning over the table as he sits back slightly over it. And he switches to Agent-mode in the blink of an eye. </p><p>“We interviewed Maria. She admitted to the men of the photo having another correlation to the one we’d previously deduced. She said they’re bad men” </p><p>“You interviewed her in prison?” You ask, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. </p><p>You’d had sex with him just a minute ago and yet this talk feels more intimate than anything else.  </p><p>“We did” he says, not reacting at the micro expressions he can deftly read from your face and body language. </p><p><em> So, they know</em>. There’s no way they don’t when they’ve interviewed her in prison too.</p><p><em>But he’d had sex with you, three times –  </em>knowing? </p><p>“She’s been admitted to a psychiatric facility so, we can’t unfortunately ask her to confirm the murder of Nathan Anderson-“ </p><p>You interject, thinking you didn’t hear it right. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“We don’t have a clear admission but she was wrongfully fired and unexpectedly so – by Nathan and we think that’s a potential motive.” </p><p>There’s something else he doesn’t say – and because you know him now, you can easily recognize what he’s hiding.</p><p><em>The fact Nathan had physically abused Maria in that same way she’d started to leave marks over her victims. </em>Was he trying to provoke you by omitting information - to test if you knew?</p><p>“Fired” you repeat meekly.</p><p>Are they using Nathan's behavior as a motive to her murders? </p><p>“Yes.” Hotch says, and he can’t help that he’s analyzing you and he reads it on your face too – that you <em>knew</em> about Nathan and Maria. </p><p>“My husband didn’t fire her. I did” you state. “I fired her months before my husband went missing – I have the documentation to prove it.” </p><p>“She said-” </p><p>You interrupt again, frustrated by his insistence to blame the poor woman over everything –<em> even</em> the crime she didn’t commit. </p><p>“I don’t care about what she said.” you snap, “She’s clearly in need for a psychiatric evaluation because she doesn’t remember the date of her dismissal.” </p><p>There’s frustration in his face as well at the new information – his fingers rubbing together in that way he always does when he’s thinking or visibly nervous. Long time ago that simple reaction would have made you happy only because it meant you’d gauged a reaction out of his steely façade.</p><p><em>Now</em>, it brings you turmoil. </p><p>“Just- just leave her alone!” Your voice is high, resonating through the room. “Okay?” </p><p><em> She’s been through so much, </em>already. You turn around, not bearing to look at him anymore. Why is the BAU even here? Why is <em>he?  </em> </p><p><em> “Can’t someone else investigate my husband’s disappearance?” </em> </p><p>Your voice is weak, feeble, breaking at the word<em> someone. </em>You stop near the kitchen island, holding yourself steady with your hands over the marbled surface. You glance at him. </p><p>“Why is the BAU investigating? Seattle PD was doing just fine.” </p><p>You’d both been psychoanalyzing the other, trying to read each other’s body language and expression but you give up<em> first</em>. Because you can’t bear to see the look of disappointment behind his stern façade. </p><p>“A man is missing -” he says slowly, eyebrows slightly rising up with his words, and you suppose it’s the same manner he speaks to local police officers when they don’t comprehend the severity of his work. “his family deserves to know what happened.” </p><p>“No”  </p><p>“No?” he repeats, getting off the table, straightens up and nears you. “What do you mean by <em>no</em>?” </p><p>You turn to face him. “That’s not an answer – <em>this</em> does not fall under your jurisdiction. We both know that the BAU deals with serial killers, psychopaths, or whatever else.” </p><p>He narrows the distance, so close to you that you can breathe him in just like you’d done minutes before. Yet he’s different – <em>both of you are</em>. And you can’t keep dancing around this discussion, ignoring forever the elephant in the room. </p><p>“Why do<em> you</em> care, Hotch?” you spit out the words to him, looking up at his face, “Why is it so important for <em>you</em> to find out who my husband was? Why does it matter so much to <em>you</em> that he’s missing?” </p><p>Hotch opens his mouth to say something but you cut him off before he can speak. </p><p>“And don’t give me that <em>bullshit </em>about everyone’s life being valuable. Tell me the truth, Hotch. Why do you care so <em>fucking</em> much to know if my husband was murdered or not?” </p><p>He inhales deeply, visibly angry over your words and the fact you’ve been interrupting him for a good while now. His eyes scour your face, but you’re not hiding anything this time. He doesn’t answer. He’s silent which is by far the most irritable thing he’s ever done. </p><p>“Is it because<em> you-”  </em> you poke him in the chest, over his button-down, to punctuate the word over him, <em>“ </em>want to make sure you kissed an innocent person?” </p><p>“Stop talking” he mutters through his teeth. You raise your voice higher. </p><p>“Is it because <em>you </em>want to rest easy at night – relieved over the fact you had a victim in your bed instead of an <em>unsub</em>?” </p><p>“...stop” </p><p>“Can you even bear <em>the thought of having fucked</em> someone who’s a <em>killer</em>?” </p><p>His hand grips firmly your wrist, halting your movement. </p><p>“I said<em> stop talking”  </em> He spits the words at your face, his eyes fiery and his voice raucous. “<em>Just</em> shut up.” </p><p>You swallow thickly, your mouth drying up – because it’s out there now, <em>no going back</em>. One more push and it would be something neither of you can sweep under a rug this time. </p><p>“<em>I did </em>-” </p><p>“<em>Don’t  </em>say anything else” he interjects.</p><p>His hold on you is strong but not painful. His voice is scolding, and it would have brought you fear and panic, but his eyes are soft – regarding you in the same way he’d had when you’d woken up next to him.  </p><p>“<em>Don’t”  </em>he pleads.  </p><p>It’s a mere split-second – his façade crumbling before you just to say that one word – and then he’s back to being Agent Hotchner. Cold, stone-faced, bringing the fear of God to the criminals he chases with unrelenting determination.  </p><p>He lets you go unkindly, watching you with disgust and like you’re scum on earth as he steps back, putting as much distance between as he can muster. He looks at the coffee cup over the table, then at the window where he’d had you pinned down and shakes his head. He doesn’t have to say anything else aloud because you can read it on his face: the <em>regret</em>, the contempt and mortification all at once.  </p><p>And<em> somehow  </em>that hurts more than whatever legal action he will take against you. </p><p>He leaves without a word, the door slamming shut behind him, <em>sealing</em> the finality of your relationship. </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey all!! thnx for reading!💕💕<br/>as always lemme know what y'all think!💕</p><p>(i might disappear in a bit bcs of some deadlines at uni but promise to update v soon)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Harsh Realm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The BAU finally connects the dots - and Hotch's torn in two after your last talk.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey all!! 💕<br/>I'm back with a long one which will finally, at last, after 124932003 words, explains what everyone's been up to lmao</p><p>TW: murder, sexual abuse, kidnapping mention/implied - usual criminal minds themes</p><p>*title by the song by Widowspeak, which is a goddamn banger</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hotch’s mind is wiped blank as he drives back to Seattle PD. He doesn’t even remember driving – one moment he is out of your house and the next -</p><p>he is striding through the halls of the building, young officers wordlessly moving out of his way.  </p><p>He’d been expecting something else – had felt unbearable guilt and regret for not letting on those first days when he’d interrogated you over everything. Had even thought about how it all made sense: Maria having dealt with torture on the hands of Nathan – traumatized for months before she took matters on her own hands after being fired and then continued to do the same with others. He’d been concerned too – thinking about the possibility of Nathan having done the same with you too.  </p><p>And now... </p><p>He barges into the meeting room, his team inside whipping around to face him once hearing the door slam into the wall behind. He halts in front of the screen where Garcia’s showing them something.  </p><p>“Garcia, I want you to find every single residence and property of Faye Watson – everything he’s ever done in his life. Every place he’s ever lived in" he bellows.</p><p>“Uh, yes, sir” </p><p>The others note the scowl on his face, the lines between his eyebrows pulled tight together and his somber expression - not unlike other times but at a more threatening degree. Dave throws him a questioning look but he knows better than to ask now and here, in front of everyone else. </p><p>“He’s not talking – nothing about his motive” </p><p>Hotch turns to Morgan, “Do you still believe it has something to do with the small club they seemed to have?” </p><p>“Yes” the other man says, “I believe so.” </p><p>“Reid -” the tall agent straightens up at the sound of his name, “I want you to look at missing persons in the last 3 years – see if there’s a pattern.” </p><p>Reid nods, furrowing his eyebrows. </p><p>“If this man is like Nathan Anderson – we need to prove it and find his victims.” </p><p>“We have to deduce the victims?” Dave asks, “We profile the unsub <em>from</em> them not vice versa” </p><p>“Yes” Hotch confirms, crossing his arms over his chest. “We have no proof that all these men were similar to him. <em>Yet</em>” </p><p>Dave looks at him like he has something else to say but thinks better of it. </p><p>“We’ll dive into Watson’s life” he says to Prentiss and Dave as he pulls a chair to sit on. </p><p> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck, fuck, fuck. </em> </p><p>You’re staring at the dark grey marble surface of the kitchen island, feeling powerless and breathless. Your entire body is shaking – but it’s not fear, not the kind that Lucille Anderson instils in you. And it’s not guilt – like the one you’d felt when you’d watched Maria drive away that night. You’re tired to the bone, shivers running through you at the cool wind that enters the room through the windows you’d opened before... </p><p>You look up – the sun has set already and the world has continued to tilt even at your state. You don’t know how long you’ve been standing here; at the exact same place you’d admitted everything to him.  </p><p>It had been his words, you think. His tender tone of voice as he called you<em> sweet</em>, his smell engulfing your senses, while holding your gaze with an expression in his eyes that had made you almost tear up. He’d muttered them without any justification, any reasoning, out in the open, at daylight – not hushed anymore at night time.  </p><p>It didn’t feel wrong – it felt<em> right</em>, and that’s what had made your heart break. The casualness of the words escaping his mouth, the dimples at the side of his lips, and even the sweat prickling at his temple as he regarded you with warm adoration – they all had made your entire chest expand and constrict, the magnitude of emotions flooding you rendering you breathless. And you couldn’t bear the thought of having your heart open already. It was <em>too soon</em>. <em>Too </em>  much in <em>so</em> little time.  </p><p>And he is the same man who had caught your father years ago and saved the lives of so many girls – and undeniably even yours. He is the man who’d first derived those feelings of rage and frustration. The same man who’d <em>so</em> easily switched them into the complete opposite. And <em>he</em> is the same man who you know - <em>deep</em>, deep down - puts nothing else above his work. </p><p>It’s only now, hours later after confessing to the murder of your own husband, that you realize you have <em>irresponsibly</em> caught feelings for the agent investigating you. </p><p>But you can’t allow it no longer. That’s why<em> the truth </em>had fallen out from your lips.  </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>“What is it, Garcia?”  </p><p>It’s way past midnight but none of them is drained or complaining. Not since they’d found a good rhythm to work with since their last meeting. Reid had piled up a series of potential victims from the missing persons, and after some hours he’d passed to unsolved crimes in Seattle and even Washington State.</p><p>It’s a massive amount of work and they all know it but they’re all adamant in finding out if Maria had done the entire state a favor at ridding it of extremely evil men. It’s also the only way for Hotch to know, indirectly, if Nathan Anderson had started or even stopped only at Maria Gratta. </p><p>“Sir, I looked up every residence Watson owns – I forwarded them to your tablets. But then I paused and thought – what would SSA Aaron Hotchner do? So, I looked back at Maria and managed to find out that her sister’s house was not sold or rented out. I called the landlord and he said that Maria has been renting it since her sister passed away but she’s been paying in cash. It’s why it’s been untraceable until now.” </p><p>Dave and Prentiss look to him. They’d never found out where her <em>lair – </em>if they can even call it that – had been after arresting her. She’d been into custody when she’d admitted to the murder weapon – the 0.21 Glock – hidden in a shed outside the social housing she lived in after her niece had tragically died. </p><p>“I’m sending you the address now.” Garcia says with a small smile. Hotch feels a pang of guilt watching her- over yelling at her to find everything about Watson and then of the amount of anxiety and stress she must have been under since this whole ordeal has started. Hell, ever since he’d given her the order to follow you a year and a half ago. </p><p>“Prentiss” he says standing up, “we’ll check it now. Thanks Garcia” </p><p>Dave leans back on his chair, watching them both get ready. They all know this is urgent – even JJ who’s helping too now by reading up on Watson; and Morgan who’s inside the conference room, taking a break after another round of questioning the man by talking to Reid about his findings. Yet, Dave can read the scowl on his face, and knows better than anyone when Hotch is hiding something underneath the surface. He’s lenient even as he sees that same frown grow.</p><p>Prentiss follows him out and into the car, and he calls a CSI squad on the way to the place. He prefers the others to join too but he can’t spare them or take them away from their work. Not until they find the precise evidence to prove the similarities between all the men.  </p><p>Hotch pulls on the plastic gloves on his hands upon entering the house, as Prentiss shines a flashlight around the place, struggling to find a switch for the central lighting. She feels at the walls until she flips a switch but the place remains dark. </p><p>“Figures” she says under her breath. Hotch directs his flashlight to the opposite side of the space as Prentiss announces she'll head to the living room.  </p><p>He’s in the kitchen – a small space where dishes are piled up neatly and clean, thin layer of dust over the beige counters. There’s a small round table in the middle with four chairs and a baby’s high-table. There’s an abatjour in the corner, and photos decorating the walls, painting the family of Maria’s sister, her husband and child. Maria is in almost all of them – smiling bright and happy. When he points the flashlight to the table, he notes the plates and cutlery laid out over it, as someone would do before having a meal.  </p><p>“This place is a museum” Prentiss says aloud. He walks to where she stands in the living room – a newspaper opened over the coffee table, two mugs, filled with something brown, and several magazines on the side of a couch. There’s a light blue pullover on the back of the couch, and a pink skirt laid over the seat, and a pair of heels at the end, over the white carpet. It’s like a scene of two people having a drink while chatting up – without the people. It’s jarring almost.  </p><p>“This cup is half-full” Prentiss points out towards the sofa. They don’t say aloud what they’re both thinking but just glance at one another. Maria had preserved every memory with her sister – undoubtedly trying to recreate them all from her. Even stage and rehearse them. </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>” Prentiss breathes out, her voice breaking.  </p><p>They don’t linger longer, moving towards the hall to the first room they note. They pass a bathroom – clean and looking like people still live in it with full shampoo bottles, two toothbrushes and even an unplugged hair straightener over the counter. Next is the master bedroom – bed made up and clothes in the corner of it neatly folded. He waits at the foot of the bed as Prentiss opens the closet, revealing women’s clothes only, nothing unmoved or touched.  </p><p>An open door from the bedroom leads to another room and they walk in, both stopping in shock at the sight. What had been – still is even through all the papers sprawled on the floor and glued to the walls – a nursery, with a crib, a large toy chest, and even a lounging chair - now looks nothing like it. There are photos of the men, taped to every surface of the wall, and even on the ground – every single one of them who was part of Nathan Anderson’s little club. From the angle and the settings of the photos taken, they’d been stalked for who knows how long. So, Maria had followed and watched them all.</p><p>But what came first – the job at Brook’s or this?  </p><p>Prentiss scans the photos one by one, perusing the dates inscribed in the photos underneath. </p><p>“I don’t see anything from more than one and a half year ago.” </p><p>Brook’s, then. </p><p>Hotch’s eyes skim the photos as well, taking in as much as he can through the overload of information. </p><p>“She doesn’t have her own copy of the photo” he voices aloud. He’d assumed she did, but she must have memorized the faces of these men, and then met then once again in Brook’s. Fate hadn’t been kind to her at all. </p><p>“She must have known something else though” Prentiss says as she moves closer to the crib that is filled to the brim with papers and books, so much so that it is overflowing. She flips through them carefully, not trying to break or ruin the structure before CSI arrives to photograph and archive it all.  </p><p>“The Andersons were a social couple” Prentiss says and Hotch sucks in a breath at the indirect mentioning of you, “They had a dozen photos around the house with friends and family. She could have easily picked any other photo to choose as victims.” </p><p>She puts some of the books down on the ground as Hotch eyes the dirty room around – Maria must have left a laptop lying around or something at least to denote her future plans. </p><p>“Nathan must have confessed to her” she says slowly, “He definitely told her about the men – he was a narcissist.” </p><p>“Narcissists rarely hold down relationships” Hotch rebuts with a bite. How Nathan had managed to get married, and even talked about children and building a family with you – everything is a mystery to Hotch.  </p><p>“Not healthy ones” Prentiss says, cocking her head to the side, “But toxic ones yes. They lack empathy, consistent compassion, consistency in general...” she speaks while reading through the documents, and even though her words seem calculative and coming from professional knowledge, there’s a tinge of something else in her voice that Hotch cannot decipher.  </p><p>“- compromise, kindness, mutuality, and even reciprocity.”  </p><p>Hotch moves beside her, picking up some of the papers from the crib. </p><p>“Perhaps he married her because she was easy to pluck from the crowd” Prentiss continues, “no close family and friends. She had no support and was alone. It would have made for the perfect prey – because there’d be no retaliation. She was sucked in the whirlpool of his life and was easier to manipulate.” </p><p>Hotch scoffs. He would never say<em> you’d  </em> be easy to manipulate. Not from as much as he knew you. But then again, you’d met Nathan after your father had been imprisoned and the whole town had turned against you, forcing you to move out. And you were still <em>so</em> young. </p><p>His eyes are set at the paper in his hands but his mind is elsewhere, remembering the look on your eyes when you’d let him and Gideon inside your old trailer. You hadn’t faltered then at seeing two foreign men enter your space. You’d met them with a certain fierceness and combativeness that had stayed with him for almost 3 years. And he knows <em>now</em>, after your admission, that you hadn’t faltered with Nathan either. </p><p>“Hotch - I think I found something” </p><p>He turns to Prentiss, shaken off from his trance at once. She holds up the folder in her hands, showing Faye Watson, the man they’d arrested at daytime, standing at an alleyway in the dark, closing the trunk of his car with both hands. Hotch has to focus his eyes and shine his flashlight to see what she wants him to spot. He almost misses it too. It would have been a very normal photo if it weren’t for a single women’s heel on the ground between his feet, and the bare foot peeking from the dark of the trunk, almost invisible.</p><p>He has a woman in the trunk of his car.  </p><p>“I’ll send a photo to Garcia” Prentiss says, and he takes the photo from her hands holding it up instead as she sends a text to the tech analyst. </p><p>“Do you recognize the building?” Hotch asks and she shakes her head. </p><p>“I don’t think so”  </p><p>He turns the photo his way, looking at it more closely and hoping he can pierce together the location just from the façade of the building – white, large windows and saw-tooth roof. It’s either somewhere in an industrial area, a farm, or somewhere else. He flips through the other photos in the folder, seeing Watson walk around outside that same building. The woman never appears again but he studies the building the man is seen outside of. He halts, his eyes glued to the blurred background behind the building. </p><p>“This is Ballard district” Hotch says aloud. “I think it might be near Ballard Locks. It’s not the safest neighborhood of Seattle” </p><p>Prentiss cocks an eyebrow but nods just the same.  </p><p>“If he’s never been found, he might still have the place” Prentiss says and he calls the others right away, relaying the information they’d collected.  </p><p>It’s almost sunrise when everyone apart from Morgan, manages to find the exact building (a great effort with the help of Reid, Hotch and Garcia) and storm in. It’s early hours of the morning when they find the building full with art supplies, canvases, other materials, and a hidden door on the floor – behind a large abstract painting. They open it up and Hotch climbs down first, followed quickly by Prentiss and Reid, all of them guns drawn.  </p><p>“We need EMTs down here right away” Dave calls from above, looking at the image before them. </p><p>They all lower their guns slowly, noting the woman chained to a steel rod in the ground, unconscious but still breathing. She’s lying on a torn-up mattress, legs blotched and bruised, and she’s thin, the skin on her face and arms sticking to the bones. She must have been here for more than a day without food – ever since that night in the yacht. It explains why Watson had been so nervous in the interrogation room. Prentiss drops to her knees and hands, approaching her slowly and trying to get her out of the restraints. She stirs violently awake, gasping at the image of all of them. She clambers, retreating with her back to the wall. </p><p>“It’s okay” Prentiss shushes in a gentle tone. “We are the police – the nightmare is over” </p><p>Her large eyes that had looked at all of them shocked and terrified turn glassy at once, tears streaming down her face. </p><p>Hotch and Reid part the way for the EMTs who enter the basement. They take her carefully out of the room and into the ambulance. Nobody speaks for a long time, even as they examine the entire building, every nook and cranny, trying to find evidence of this not being the first victim. </p><p>They’re silent even as Hotch orders for more officers and agents to disseminate all of Watson’s properties at the same time. They don’t know if this is the only location and they have to get him to confess the dumping site. Hotch is certain that the photo Maria had snapped of Watson had been on his way to dump the body – if she hadn’t already taken photos from there too. They still have to go through all the material in the house. </p><p>“The paintings” Reid says after long hours spent inside, “they’re all of women” He moves a modern painting to the side, revealing a cluster of small canvases depicting women’s faces – realistic drawings of pained, hurt faces and eyes full of tears. It’s the same expression that the woman from before had directed at them.  </p><p>There are three. </p><p>Hotch, Dave and Prentiss scurry across the floor, moving out absurd, geometrical paintings out of the way.  </p><p>“There’s three more here” Dave shoots from the other corner of the room, far away enough for his voice to echo and carry to them in the large space, even with forensics and officers taking inventory of everything. </p><p>“And one here” Prentiss says from the opposite corner. “And <em>shit</em>, I can see two peeking from under the table.” </p><p>Hotch is on the ground, his ears ringing from the echoes of their voices and his blood running cold. This man has gotten away with this many victims – had continued getting away with it, without alerting the police, or the FBI. They never would have learned about him if it hadn’t been for Maria Gratta and her breakdown. He carelessly moves paintings out of the way, throwing them above his shoulders in sheer desperation, his heart beating with the rage that overtakes him whenever he faces any of these monsters. It’s canvas after canvas of geometrical shapes in wild contrasting colors, until they end and there’s only sketched papers. He flips through them all, until his fingers fumble with a decorated folder, carefully wrapped and protected from the rest. </p><p>He breathes in – seeing the same face of the woman they’d just saved, sketched lightly with a pencil over several white papers, tucked inside the folder. Watson had been practicing for the oil painting, and judging by the number of sketches – he’d been close to the final painting as well, and maybe more so to the disposal of her body too. </p><p>“I found her” Hotch says, standing up.  </p><p>“That’s it” Dave lets out, his voice tired and resolved as they all join Hotch in a circle, each carrying stacks of paintings. All of them stand slouched, bodies crippled with realization, Hotch included.  </p><p>Maria had targeted one serial killer and now, with the new evidence they have yet to comb through – disposed of even more. </p><p> </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>They find the dumping site not too far away – all because of Maria’s stalking and photos. There are a dozen bodies in total, not including the woman they saved. The M.E confirms that each murder had happened yearly, apart from the last four – signaling Watson’s escalation.</p><p>It felt daunting somehow. Maria had been a vigilante, probably without knowing so fully. There are no clear photos of other bodies or anything else incriminatory in the photos she’d taken over the months. But they know they have to follow through every location from the photos – if Watson is an example to follow.  </p><p>They’re on the way back to the police department when Dave speaks, sitting in the passenger seat as Hotch drives the SUV.  </p><p>“Maybe they weren’t all serial killers” </p><p>Dave’s eyes study Hotch’s expression, taking in his sullen eyes, the flare of his nose, the clenching of his teeth together, the line of tension over his jaw and the pinch of his eyebrows. He’s gripping the steering wheel with all his might, knuckles so white they must hurt his arms too. </p><p>Hotch remains quiet. </p><p>“It doesn’t mean Nathan Anderson was” </p><p>Hotch draws in a sharp breath, letting it out at once – his words measured but restrained. </p><p>“He must have confessed to Maria, which made her go after all of them.” </p><p>Dave shakes his head, his voice soft. “Yes, but it doesn’t mean all of them were like Watson” </p><p>Hotch glances at the other man, shifting his attention briefly to the focus he’s regarding Hotch with. Is it <em>comfort? </em>  Why would Dave be comforting <em>him? </em> </p><p>“We have to interrogate her, again” He finally says and Hotch stares ahead, refusing to meet his eyes.  </p><p>“She’s a great insight to Nathan’s leanings. It would help us perfect his profile.” </p><p><em> Hotch knows it too.</em> But he can’t imagine seeing your face again. He can’t even entertain the thought of having to be in the same room as you after your confession. And what would you take from the request, either way? Their sudden interest in Nathan once again, coincidentally right after last night, when you’d pressed your body to his before admitting to the murder. </p><p><em> Almost </em>admitting, Hotch corrects.</p><p>That word swarms painfully in his brain. He’d put an end to your words before you’d actually voiced them aloud. He’d still had your taste coating his tongue, and the bruising force of the last kiss lingered against his mouth as you talked. And he didn’t want to cease thinking of either of those two. He hadn’t wanted to let go of the version of you in that hotel, or in the condo in New York – or any version of you he’d had at your house: against the glass, over the dining table, and even in his bedroom.  </p><p><em> No</em>, the <em>actual</em> words had been cut off before they hovered in the open air – but they were stuck in both your minds.  </p><p>“That’s not necessary yet” He hears himself say aloud. </p><p>Dave nods, not questioning his reasoning. </p><p>“We have to resort to profiling him on our own then... We have to find <em>his </em>victims.” Dave says, turning to look outside the window to the moving landscape.</p><p>He says the next words under his breath, like he’s speaking to himself – Hotch hears them just the same. </p><p>“I can’t imagine how she will react to knowing her husband could have been a serial killer too.” </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>They<em> have to  </em>profile Nathan. </p><p>When Faye Watson finally cracks under Morgan’s questioning and with the new evidence, he only confesses to the kidnappings, the sexual abuse and murders but never says anything about the club or Nathan Anderson. Their focus shifts again, turning now entirely to him. </p><p>It’s lunch time when Dave knocks on Hotch’s door. He’d gotten away only to call Jack, wanting to hear his son’s soothing voice before continuing through the damned day. He talks to him while looking out the window – the sky overcast in clouds but the air nevertheless humid and blistering hot. Dave comes in and stops before his desk.  </p><p>“I called her” he says without waiting for a sign from Hotch that he’s listening. </p><p>He whips around, shock evident on his face. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>Dave shoves his hands in his pockets, as he profiles Hotch openly, without trying to hide it. </p><p>“I asked in a favor to stay at her house. We all need a good rest before we continue on with investigating Nathan.” </p><p>Hotch steels his features, angry once noticing the inquisitive eyes of David Rossi. </p><p>“We’re burning the candle at both ends: trying to tie this club together, finding the crimes and victims of all these men, Brook’s, and even Clover. It's too much for everyone. But we saved a woman today, Aaron.” </p><p><em> It’s not enough</em>, Hotch wants to rebut.  </p><p>How can he say it though, when that same thought crossed all of their minds? They’d missed not only one, but 7 criminals – serial killers, psychopaths or whatever that still needed to be proved. </p><p>“She said you told her it wasn’t a good idea” </p><p>Hotch lets his shoulders fall in resignation, and lowers his head. He hadn’t even made plans for a hotel stay. He’d hoped and taken it for granted that would the need arise again they’d stay at your house. Had even let his mind cross another territory – imagining you, <em>again,</em> tangled in the sheets over his bed, the one you’d both slept in. He snaps out of it.  </p><p>He’s relieved you hadn’t tried to confess to Dave too.<em> At least</em>, it’s still a secret. </p><p>“Something about the media following her and us blatantly being federal agents” </p><p>He sucks in a breath – that's <em>a good excuse. </em>And a well-crafted lie that he has to follow too. </p><p>“I did” Hotch says matter-of-factly. “She’s under media scrutiny now with another murder.” </p><p>“Of course,” Dave nods, but he doesn’t make an effort to move or leave.</p><p>There’s a beat during which they only stare at each other, daring the other to speak. Then, Dave finally breaks the silence. </p><p>“Aaron, if there’s anything else plaguing your mind – Jack, Haley or... <em>not." </em> </p><p>He accentuates the last word, wanting Hotch to catch the hidden meaning. </p><p>“I’m always here to talk. Outside of work. Know I’m not the one to judge when I’ve made so many calculated mistakes.” </p><p>“Calculated?” Hotch repeats, his eyebrows going up.  </p><p>“Well,” Dave starts, a small playful smirk playing at his lips. “I’ve always dived head-first into them even if they turned out to be mistakes.” </p><p>Hotch plops down on his chair, leaning his head back, the soft material against his scalp making him let out a breath – only now realizing the extent of his exhaustion. </p><p>“Did you know beforehand that they were mistakes?” Hotch asks, adding fuel to the fire. </p><p>Dave remains serious, despite it all. “Of course. When you both know you shouldn’t - that’s what makes it the best kind.” </p><p>They’re nearing the end of talking in innuendos and given the tiredness in the other man as well, Hotch knows (by experience and mostly against his will) that the filter in his words will soon disappear. Soon enough Dave will yell at him to get laid already, because his pent-up energies have been stressing everyone out. He’d said this once after work and a social outing at O’Keeffe’s where they’d all gotten blackout drunk.</p><p>And Hotch’s not particularly dying to hear those same words again, or something worse.  </p><p>“Just take the afternoon off” Hotch says, standing up at once, opening the door himself as he goes out to the conference room, everyone else perking up as he relays that same order.</p><p>Every sense of urgency has left ever since Watson had been charged and officially arrested. He knows they’re all tired, he is too – his entire body feels heavy, even though he can’t imagine he will even be able to sleep after everything. They are all collecting their belongings and reordering the documents over the table, when the big screen pings with a new notification, and then Garcia’s face appears. She looks the worse for wear. More so than the rest of them. She pulls up the large pink glasses drooping down the bridge of her nose before speaking.  </p><p>"I followed the breadcrumbs and I was able to attribute the software package and modus operandi of Anderson Tech to Brook’s. Nathan Anderson customized their software on his own – he's been practically bragging about it everywhere on social media and in interviews.” </p><p>“He made the banking system of Brook’s” Hotch repeats aloud, not knowing what to do with the new information. </p><p>“Yes” Garcia confirms. “He did.” </p><p>“To what avail?” Reid asks. “Brook’s was a front for hiding their shady expenses.” </p><p>“That’s the thing” Garcia says, “Although Brook’s is not legally his – he has significant shares in the gentlemen’s club.” </p><p>“Wait...” Morgan speaks up, looking at them all confused, “What does this mean? Brook’s was the club then? From the photo?” </p><p>Prentiss shrugs, “It could have been. With only Baker and Watson remaining they might have fought for leadership status. Maybe even start anew and recruit fresh members.” </p><p>“I found out that Brook’s wasn’t only concealing their expenses – but also their investments.” </p><p>She shares her screen, showing them the entire banking system that they’d discovered since finding out about the gentlemen’s club. There are millions unaccounted for, still in the account, and not yet withdrawn. The screen switches illustrating the source of the money split almost equally between the men from the photo – everyone apart from Nathan Anderson. </p><p>“When was each deposit made, Garcia?” Hotch asks. </p><p>“They’re regular, although they stopped one and a year ago.” </p><p>“Since Nathan’s disappearance” Morgan says aloud. </p><p>There’s a wild thought in Reid’s mind – his eyes widening as he glances at the pile of documents of missing persons.  </p><p>“I was able to find only the last four victims” Reid says, turning to Hotch. “No trace of the other women.” </p><p>They’ve spent years working with one another and he knows how to read the genius’ mind before he has to explicitly state what he’s thinking. </p><p>“How many deposits did Watson make?” Hotch asks. </p><p>There is only the loud typing on the keyboard before Garcia answers. </p><p>“Eight” </p><p><em> Eight remaining bodies. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em>At what intervals, Garcia?” His voice is cold, emotionless but deafening. </p><p>The others look from him to Garcia, eyes darting back and forth with realization, and they’re all holding their breaths. </p><p>“Yearly”  </p><p>She looks back at him, then her eyes slowly widen – reading at once the room. </p><p>“No...” she breathes out, her voice a whisper. “Are you thinking –?” </p><p>Dave throws Hotch a look, his hand on his shoulder for silent support, and Hotch’s almost offended by the gesture. He’s not deserving of it. He’s not the one who needs it most. Especially since they’re all thinking what he’s thinking. </p><p>“He’s been providing them with bodies?” Morgan asks them.  </p><p>“We don’t have any proof” Prentiss lets out with a defeated sigh. </p><p>And for the first time since last night, Hotch allows himself to think freely about you – beyond the confession.</p><p>He knows you knew about what Nathan did to Maria but were you aware about<em> everything else?  </em> </p><p>The question rattles around in his brain, making him drop his hands to the table, bending down to hold up his bodyweight. He vaguely feels Dave’s hand on his back, patting him. </p><p>“Aaron-” Dave calls him once again, and he snaps out of it, realizing the other man has been repeating his name twice already. He bops his head to the screen, and Hotch looks to where he points. </p><p>Garcia grants him an apologetic smile. </p><p>“Sorry – you told me to inform you when Clover contacts her.” </p><p>He barely registers her words. “What?”  </p><p>“Clover” Garcia repeats louder, “she was just invited to another event.” </p><p><em> Fuck, </em>Hotch breathes out.</p><p>He desperately needs to sleep before having to face you again, let alone dive into another undercover mission. </p><p> </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>When you’d pictured the BAU showing up at your house again, it didn’t include them ringing your bell at 5pm, looking calm, collected and giving you polite smiles. It had been more violent in your head – police sirens with a fleet of police cars and maybe SWAT too (like you even knew what or how they went after criminals, but nightmares rarely make sense), and Hotch bending you over and handcuffing you while he recites the Miranda warning, before throwing you in prison with a life sentence. </p><p>It definitely didn’t include him standing in front of you besides Agent Rossi, black sunglasses perched over his nose, hiding his eyes and facial expression. While the other man gives you a brief smile. </p><p>“Hi?” you offer, voice feeble while looking at both of them confused, the other agents lingering behind in their SUVs. </p><p>“You didn’t read the email, did you?” Agent Rossi asks.  </p><p>“Email?” you ask.  </p><p><em> No</em>, you haven’t been exactly staring at your computer or phone as of late – it had been news channels and radios echoing loudly inside your house, waiting for some kind of announcement that Nathan Anderson’s murderer had indeed been his famed wife. You’d even expected Lucille Anderson to show up at your doorstep – finally taking the revenge she dreamed of for so long. </p><p>Agent Rossi pushes through the door, walking inside the house, already hearing the voices of the tv from the living room. He raises his eyebrows. </p><p>“Television” you clarify, realizing his train of thought that you might not be alone. He nods, resuming the previous topic.</p><p>“Clover’s inviting you<em> both </em>-” he glances quickly at Hotch, “to their headquarters for a special event tonight.” </p><p>“<em>Tonight</em>?” </p><p>You can’t help the high pitch in your surprised voice when you can’t even look Hotch’s way, and you’re expected to spend, what... <em>another night</em> in his presence, and in front of everyone, including Lucille? In a million years you wouldn’t have thought Hotch would even agree to it – not after his reaction last time. </p><p>“Garcia thinks you can enter their offices and get the evidence we need to prove they’re in fact planning on concealing criminals” </p><p>You scoff, “I’m not equipped to do that. This isn’t <em>Mission Impossible.</em>” </p><p>Agent Rossi stops before you, and studies your reaction when he talks: </p><p>“Hotch can. You just have to schmooze the rich elite. Can we count on you?” </p><p>You look at Hotch for the first time.</p><p>But you can’t even tell if he meets your eyes through the sunglasses. </p><p>And it’s <em>stupid</em> - there’s no way you can accept like nothing has changed and you don’t want to. But a part of you wants to be near him, one last time, even though you’d been the one to push him away. And he’s the world’s most stubborn man. You can see why he’s good at his job – he’s insufferably obstinate. Evidence is the only thing that can sway him –<em> all of them</em>, you mean. </p><p>So, you find yourself obliging once again. </p><p>“Yes. Just tell me what I need to do.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey yall! 💕💕💕<br/>thanks as always for reading and all the love<br/>I promise to update soon-ish with the new chapter<br/>(ya girl got a student job lmao and a new hellish semester so ive been struggling to get into the old groove) but im v keen on this story (it genuinely haunts my dreams lol) so it will surely continue!! </p><p>love y'all 💕</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Nothing Fucks with my Baby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Another undercover mission makes you confront Lucille, Roger and others -  Hotch realizes something new.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey all!!<br/>Buckle up because this is literally (i think) the longest one I've written.<br/>And also theme: DENIAL<br/>Solely because I didn't feel like cutting it lmao<br/>(also im leavin u with a long one bcs i have to disappear for uni work lmao so i'm sorry yall!!!😭 it hurts me too!)</p><p>but yes... some stuff ~occurs<br/>(if u see any grammar errors - no u didnt lol)</p><p>*also that gorgeous title is from the NFWMB by Hozier, obviously</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You take in a shuddering breath, steadying yourself as you look at your reflection on the mirror. Agent Prentiss and JJ give you small smiles when you turn, both watching you differently now – almost as if pitying you. JJ sits at the foot of your large Queen-sized bed, yours and Nathan’s marital bed – mattress changed after that night in the kitchen for obvious reasons.</p><p>Because you couldn’t bear smelling him in your sheets, or feeling the imprint of his body on his side of the bed. Not that the gesture ameliorated your sleeping schedule or allowed you to rest easier. </p><p>Agent Prentiss stands beside you, looking around the bedroom with curious eyes. It’s not that apparent on their faces that they know something about Nathan, and they remain professional, but you note it in the way they study everything in the room. They eye the covered furniture and even the large wedding portrait you’d moved out of your living room since that night with Maria and Nathan.  </p><p>And yet they don’t know about you killing him. Hotch hadn’t told them. You don’t think you’d even be here if they knew you were a murderer. Searching for the reason behind him keeping it a secret makes you more stressed and paranoid than the secret itself. </p><p>“Okay, I’m ready for the wire” you let out, raising your arms in an exhibitionist way. Agent Prentiss shakes her head with a chuckle. </p><p>“No wire tonight.” she says as she crosses her arms before her chest. You glance at JJ and she only smiles politely. You drop your arms. </p><p>“What?” you ask, surprised. Weren’t they the ones to suggest you do this like a spy action movie?  </p><p>“We don’t think it’s going to be safe” Agent Prentiss says. “Garcia already checked out the venue and she will be able to hijack the cameras to guide you and allow you to sneak around, so it’s not necessary.” </p><p>“Hijack?” you repeat. You turn to the vanity table by the open window of the room – the only source of fresh air providing respite from the heat. You pick up jewelry to go with the dress, long sapphire earrings and two golden rings.  </p><p>“Wouldn’t they notice someone hacking them? Is that even allowed from the FBI?” </p><p>“It will all be okay” she says with a smirk, ignoring your questions. Her red lips pull mischievously together as she looks at you, “I’m not sure we could even fit a wire in you in that dress.” </p><p>Funnily enough, her words make you blush like a schoolgirl. Did the BAU specifically hire suave and charming people – was that a prerequisite to join them? You shake your head, because no matter what you’re wearing, Hotch won’t even dignify you with a look, so what difference does it even make? </p><p>You squeeze your eyes shut – well, that’s unlike you also: to be stuck here, in your house, thinking about a man in a quiet, exasperated way. Your way tended to be more proactive, either make them realize what they’re missing, or move on. Even though the last time you’d done it you’d ended up with a psychopath as a husband so maybe there’s a lesson to be learned there. </p><p>And it’s not like this is the same thing – it’s not like you ever <em>had</em> Hotch.</p><p>You didn’t date, or like each other – it was solely brief moments of bodies coming together whenever tensions ran high. When you were angry. Or after you spent a night together in innocuous ways. Or when you worried about the other. Or when you were in the same room together. Or when you simply, explicitly wanted to touch...  </p><p>You wince. Okay – no more thinking about <em>that. </em>  </p><p>Agent Prentiss and JJ walk with you downstairs, and watching Hotch stand by the front door, looking up at you while you descend the stairs, makes your heart skip a beat. He looks sharp with his black hair, slick to the sides and at the back, and clean-shaven. He’s wearing a black button-down, and, a <em>surely</em> <em>tailored</em> three-piece tux with the way it fits him perfectly over the broad shoulders and around the toned torso, and black enough that it will make everyone else's suits at the event look faded. His shoes outshine his Rolex, making him look expensive but not too on the nose or high maintenance.</p><p>He looks <em>handsome</em>. You stop before him and he boldly looks at you from head to toe, taking in your dress, pausing to meet your eyes for the first time since they’d all shown up this afternoon. You’re supposed to be over this – over <em>him</em>, after everything that has happened and the finality of what existed between the two of you. But you feel more drawn to him than ever before.  </p><p>He looks more than handsome – he looks<em> seductive</em><em>. </em> </p><p>You swallow, feeling weak under his gaze. This is a bad idea, <em>already</em>. </p><p>Agent Rossi grins at you, clearing his throat loudly, making the both of you turn to him. Everybody else has left apart from him, and from the way his eyes twinkle bright with playfulness, it must have been some time too, both of you staring at one another in silence. </p><p>“If I may...” You nod and he continues, “You look beautiful, really... <em>acqua</em><em> e </em><em>sapone</em>.” </p><p>You smile at his kind words, though you don’t comprehend half of them. </p><p>“Thanks, Agent Ro-” </p><p>“We need to go, now” Hotch interjects, opening the front door and beckoning you to head out first. You shoot an apologetic smile at Agent Rossi. </p><p>“Later, 007” He bids goodbye to Hotch, who huffs out in displeasure.</p><p>He opens the car door for you first, not waiting for you to get inside, before circling back to the driver’s seat. He turns the ignition on right away, while you’re stuck thinking about what other options there could have been apart from this – standing so close to him, able to smell his subtle cologne in the small space, as he drives. Maybe a taxi, but unless he’d sat on the front, you’d be nearer – no center console to separate your limbs. A limo then? But then again, you’d have to face him. A bus – you decide. You could have just sat on the far back, away from him. But unless the FBI owns and is actually lenient in handing out service buses (this idea has gotten so far-fetched, and you know it too), then what is the point of this fantasy? </p><p>You admitted to having killed Nathan. </p><p>You <em>killed</em> Nathan, and it’s the one thought that<em> should</em> be ringing around your head ever since Hotch had left your house that day. It feels worse than when you’d done it, but not to a significant or incomparable degree. It’s  simply <em>worse</em>. </p><p>Hotch’s been withholding information, or possibly advised the entire BAU not to address it, not until you find out about Clover probably – and you’re riddled with curiosity over why he’s not letting out. <em>That’s</em> the only thing in your mind. </p><p>The car stops and you look up – you’re already here and Hotch has parked the car in front of a large office building. You spent the whole drive in silence, and lost in your thoughts, but you’re grateful over it. He steps out first, and you study the building in front – glass facades on all sides, and brilliant indoor lighting that from street level like you are now, render visible the people inside attending the event on the fourth floor. The door at your side opens, humid air seeping in, and you look up, meeting Hotch’s gaze. He extends a hand for you to take, already in the play-act you’re supposed to dutifully follow tonight – that you’re dating and in good terms. </p><p>You clasp your hand around his, the simple contact making you draw in a breath as you step out the car. His hold on you is loose, his palm remaining stretched open, unlike all the other times when he’d touched you – firm and confident and a little bit rough. With the high heels you have on tonight, the height difference isn’t much, and you’re painfully aware of how close to his face you are, how much closer to his lips you’re at. He shuts the car door behind you with a thud, shaking you out of your trance. </p><p>“We don’t have to stay the whole night”  </p><p>It’s the first thing he’s said to you since that day, and it’s huffed out in anger. </p><p>“Sure” you let out as he leads you up the steps of the building, moving your hand so it’s situated around his elbow, and it clings around his sleeve instead. “I’m not looking forward to being around Lucille longer than necessary.” </p><p>Once in, the heat from outside is a distant memory as cooled air conditioning wafts through the space. There are waiters and event hosts directing people towards the glass elevators, urging you to go to the party on the fourth floor. Hotch doesn’t speak and neither do you as you both glide towards the elevators. The view from the glass as the lift takes you up shows a large indoor garden filled with tropical trees and flowers, even an indoor fountain and water features in the ground floor, that continues as an atrium upwards. As always, the Andersons do not spare any expenses to appear over the top and be remembered. </p><p>“Impressive” you say under your breath and Hotch lets out a <em>hmm</em> in acknowledgement to your comment. It’s enough of a break in his steeled façade to bring you a small sense of relief. </p><p>The doors of the elevator slide open before you, and Hotch thanks the concierge, before stepping out. The floor opens to an expansive ballroom – lined with glass walls on three sides, looking out to the sea and the remainder of Downtown Seattle, while the one side with a wall is lined with expensive paintings and sculptures.</p><p>You have to walk along the wall as you make your way inside with Hotch. You look up at a painting you recognize right away, pausing at once and Hotch does too, following your lead. It depicts the curtain call at the end of a ballet performance, a curtsying dancer bathed in an unflattering glare of lights, while behind her, a man in an elegant black tuxedo lurks in the wings, face hidden by a goldenrod curtain making the entire painting appear sinister.  </p><p>“Degas” Hotch says, recognizing the impressionist painter of <em>L’etoile</em>.  </p><p>“Sex work was a part of a ballerina’s reality in the 1800s” you say, eyes glued to the shadow of the man in the painting, “Most opera houses included a foyer serving as a gentlemen’s club where wealthy men would subscribe to the opera, conduct business, socialize, and then proposition to the ballerinas. Many of the dancers entered the academy as children and their entire future was dependent on these men prowling backstage. What an unbalanced power dynamic.” </p><p>His eyes hold a question. </p><p>“The Anderson estate where Nathan and his siblings grew up and where Lucille lives, is filled with Degas paintings” you clarify. It’s why you’d made yourself learn as much as possible over art and literature. That and the fact they talked to you as if you were less intelligent and worthy. “A single one is said to be worth at $32,000” </p><p>You turn around, and let go of Hotch’s arm to pluck a champagne flute from a passing waiter, granting him a smile in gratitude. With the lack of contact, Hotch puts distance between you two, stepping to your right, and shoving his hands in his pockets. </p><p>You tilt the glass to your mouth, the chilled bitterness of the bubbles on your tongue making you extremely aware of Hotch watching you. But you keep your attention set ahead, taking in the invited guests. The atmosphere is different than the one at the hotel – it has that apparent exclusive and aristocratic feeling to it as you note lawyers, CEOs, politicians, judges and whoever is wealthy and has connections.</p><p>Anyone who is anyone in Seattle and Washington State is here tonight, it seems. There are already plenty of people dancing in the middle, swaying to the music being played by the jazz band at the far end of the room. Despite the clear theme of the event, everyone seems to be looser and enjoying themselves loudly and with no worry, most probably due to the open bar and free drinks that never lack at an event hosted by the Andersons. </p><p>It is how Nathan made deals and relationships as well – not sitting around conference tables or inside offices, but over glasses of Macallan whiskey at a cigar bar, or around pounds of shellfish and salmon at an expensive seafood restaurant in Capitol Hill or elsewhere. And when you moved to Seattle for him, and while engaged and then married, you’d attended any kind of event – in order to impress and chat up wives and girlfriends of influential men while he conducted business with their counterparts.  </p><p>No longer timid and feeling small under the watchful eyes of others as you’d always been whenever Nathan made you attend these events with a specific task in mind, you walk further into the room, Hotch in tow. You make the rounds, stopping briefly to chat to people you recognize. One hour in and Hotch never complains or says something. Once you make a stop at the bar again, plucking another champagne flute, you decide to stop acting as if you're an Anderson.</p><p>You make a beeline to the group of old men with whiskey glasses in hand, chatting louder than anyone else. You recognize almost all of them – the current Attorney General of Washington, governors, senators, and other representatives. They are the only ones who don’t have familial or distant ties to the Anderson family tree – so they weren’t personally affected by Nathan’s disappearance.</p><p>The Attorney General, a 56-year-old man, donning eyeglasses and a navy suit, slim-built and tall, notices you fist, smiling politely as the others turn to where he looks. </p><p>“Mister Ferguson” you greet with a smile and he nods. “It’s a pleasure to see you again” </p><p>The man reaches over, and you shake his hand. </p><p>“Miss Anderson, I’ve told you to call me Robert. Young people calling me by my last name makes me feel extremely old. I was just telling this to the others as well.” </p><p>“You shouldn’t have picked this profession then” you rebut, confident charm oozing out of you with ease and like never before, even through the bluntness of your words.  </p><p>The group laughs at that.  </p><p>“She is right, Bob” says a bald-headed, short man, clad in a gray suit. He claps a hand over Robert’s shoulder – he’s a senator. </p><p>“I fear Miss Anderson has always been wiser than any of us folks.” he says.  </p><p>His eyes go to Hotch, lingering longer than necessary, curiosity getting the best of him. You take a step back, not knowing how to introduce him because you'd never broached the subject.  </p><p>Unlike you, Hotch doesn’t falter – stepping confidently forward, extending a hand to the man. </p><p>“Aaron Hotchner” he says, “Prosecutor for the District’s Attorney’s office in Virginia State” </p><p>Robert shakes his hand, nodding, and you’re unsure whether that is an undercover tale with how confidently he says it. </p><p>“Are you a fellow George Washington University alumnus?” The bald man from before asks. </p><p>Hotch nods, stepping back to your side, his arm briefly brushing against yours. He’s not particularly smiling but it’s a more open expression to the one he had plastered on, in the car.</p><p>“Yes, indeed. I earned my Juris Doctor degree in 1990.” </p><p>He ignores your curious eyes, so you resort to taking another sip from your drink.  </p><p>“I’m impressed” Robert says, glancing your way.</p><p>He’s got a playful grin on his face – and you’ve known since before getting married to Nathan, that just like he had blind support, he also had opposition. And the men in this group made the entirety of that small portion of people in Washington who don’t like the power of the Anderson family. He’d even joked once, in an innocuous way, if you were confident in getting married into a family where nobody would identify you as an individual anymore but as a part of a large cult. Back then, you’d been offended. Now, with Nathan gone, and still bearing the advantages of having the Anderson surname – you understand the full-meaning of his words. Hell, you’re sure that they’re even glad Nathan is gone. More so than you, probably. </p><p>“It’s a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen” he says. “I followed closely your election to the Metropolitan King County Council in 2003. Defeating a 20-year veteran must not have been easy.” </p><p>Okay – so<em> not</em> an undercover tale. Had he <em>really</em> been a prosecutor, at some point?  </p><p>“It wasn’t” Robert says, his eyebrows going up in pleased surprise. “I knocked on 22,000 doors in the district, and the council was reduced. The redistricting placed me in the same district as another Democratic County Councilmember. I won by a very a small margin” </p><p>When you take another sip, you do so by looking at Hotch, jaw aching with the smile you refuse to bestow him – caught by his expert ways of encouraging these men to easily brag about themselves. Of course, a profiler knows how to tick someone’s boxes, but you know it’s not only that. You think it’s just him – knowing how to read people, always sharp-witted and perceptive. </p><p>Hotch is adept in steering the conversation with the group, maybe because of his previous background in the field. His intelligent jokes and remarks make you dwell on how ambitious he must have been – to go from studying law, becoming a prosecutor, an FBI agent, and now a unit chief, and you’re certain somehow, that his ambitions must not end here. You’d never stopped to think about it, and you’re embarrassed that you don’t know him as much as you thought you did.</p><p>Was this how Nathan had felt about you back then – when you slept with him and you refused to tell him about yourself? </p><p>Tipping back the glass, you finish off the champagne, and turn to spot a table or a passing waiter to set it down, but Hotch takes the base of the flute from your hands, stopping you. He takes the glass from your hand, and the waiter is quick to see him and offer up a tray so he can get rid of it – the gesture so disarmingly gentlemanly it catches you by surprise. </p><p>You feel only now his other arm wrapped loosely around your waist, his hand hovering in the air over your hip, not touching you – out of respect? Some semblance of control that he leaves up to you?</p><p>Without the glass taking your attention, you clasp your hand over his, so his palm and fingers press flatly over you. He’s in the middle of saying something about politics, words distant that they don’t quite reach your ears, but you feel the way his breath hitches, voice still remaining self-assured and cocky. </p><p>You can’t help drawing the differences between your husband and him. Nathan had always pressed a mockery of a kiss over your lips, before showering you with meaningless compliments and urged you to talk people’s ears off and bond with other women and girls at events. Only now do you realize how sexist that act is. If Nathan were a politician, you were the one supposed to get him the young female vote.</p><p>You don’t realize your blood is boiling and your eyebrows are furrowed from the memory, until you feel Hotch’s thumb over your hipbone drawing lazy patterns– calming you down. It makes your memories of Nathan fade away.</p><p>Then you hear him, voice drooping honey-sweet and husky: “...<em> honey </em>” </p><p>You look his way, cheeks heating up once you notice how close you are to him.  </p><p>“Robert here asked about New York” He bops his head to the man in front and you blink, trying to shove the feelings Hotch instills on you so easily, way back down your throat. </p><p>“Apologies” you mumble, cheeks flush with embarrassment. </p><p>Robert doesn’t look at both of you with judgement – nor do the other men. He smiles politely.  </p><p>“I asked about your project in New York” he repeats. “How is that going? I’ve been trying to keep tabs but I have been admittedly caught in work.” </p><p><em> Right </em>– he'd been one of the people you’d asked back in New York for advices and the like, knowing he donates hundreds of hours of free legal advice to non-profit organizations.  </p><p>“It’s going well” you say nodding, unable to stifle the easy smile that comes from being around people with no hidden motives,<em> and Hotch.</em> “I don’t personally run it – but I heard they've already broken ground for the shelter and the building.” </p><p>“That’s good”  </p><p>The other men listen as he explains aloud the prospect of the project you’d funded and handed over to Therese in New York, meant to shelter and protect sex workers, and victims of sex trafficking, as well as offer them legal advice. You jump in from time to time, talking about the work Therese has continued to do, and the goals of the project.</p><p>“Thank you again for your indispensable help, Robert. I’m eternally grateful” </p><p>“Does that mean you will fund his future election?” the other man asks, jokingly. </p><p>You let out a laugh. “Sure - as long as his policies in the plan still match my leanings” </p><p>The other men match your laughter, as does Robert who shrugs, drinking from his whiskey. With Hotch’s hold on you, and the genuine smiles of the people around, you almost forget where you are, what you’re here for, and even the fact you shouldn’t be getting along so easily with the man beside you.</p><p>Another waiter passes by offering Hotch a whiskey which he takes while mumbling a thanks. He detaches from you, but allows you to latch a hand around his free one, intertwining fingers together without a need for permission or justification – as normal as flowers blooming in spring after a soft rain shower. He takes big gulps of the drink before looking at you. </p><p>You’re caught by his gaze as he watches you with that same gentleness that you once couldn’t bear and had felt as overwhelming as walls closing in on you. Now, it makes your heart skip a beat and heat take rise inside your chest. The jazz music playing by the band at the very end of the ballroom slowly becomes a faint echo around the two of you. The magnolias dispersed and decorating beautifully the place, the colorful display of light, the chatter and the excitement - they all slowly dissipate. You get a whiff of his cologne – the same one that had engulfed your senses in the drive here – mixed now with the whiskey, and a hint of sweat.</p><p>And for a beat you’re the only people in the room, and he’s the only person you see. There’s a pull, making you both bridge the distance between slowly, and his eyes fall to your lips, your knees nearly buckling. A lightbulb goes off in your head, understanding at once why telling him about Nathan hurts more than what he had made you feel and do – because it means you have to let go of Hotch.</p><p>Because what future can there exist when you’re a criminal and he’s law enforcement?  </p><p>Hotch seems to be thinking something completely different as he drains the liquid from the glass, dropping it nonchalantly on a moving tray, and turns fast to stand in front of you, chest nearly touching yours. </p><p>The soft trickle of a slow jazz tune drifts back in around you. </p><p>“Dance with me” he commands. </p><p>He doesn’t wait for a response as he leads you out to the stage, not paying any mind to the group you were talking with or how rude you’re both being without first excusing yourselves.  </p><p>He stops when you’re at a free spot, people slow-dancing around you. He slides a hand around your waist, guides you in, and you suck in a sharp breath, your body meeting his for seemingly the first time. And you’d grown so accustomed to doing this – being so close while unclothed but this is new and surprisingly thrilling. Raising your arms, you place a right hand on his shoulder and your left hand in his, as you let him lead you in a small circle – that small, private space you’d carved together before, still unscathed.</p><p>You let yourself enjoy this stolen moment – eyes fluttering closed, hands tingling and legs feeling weak by his proximity.  </p><p>You hadn’t been open to Nathan when you’d met him as lies and manipulations went hand in hand with your relationships with him. And yet, Hotch had been the first one to see you from beginning till now. He’d met you when you were living in that trailer, barely scraping by but pulling through thanks to your stubbornness. He knew about your father – <em>hell</em>, he’d saved you from him.</p><p>He’d met then the new you a year later; this phantom of person you’d become as Nathan’s wife. And then now, he’d witnessed you become someone completely different, shedding the effects of your life with your husband and existence under the shadow of the Andersons. It's the first time in your life you have ever allowed yourself to be vulnerable and honest.</p><p>Maybe that’s why you’d even told him about Nathan to begin with. Hotch makes you want and wish to become an honest and better person – and <em>God knows, </em>that has <em>never </em>once been your priority.</p><p>It has always been about <em>survival. </em> </p><p>Trying to clear your thoughts, and shake off the feelings of bitter-sweetness that overtakes you whenever you feel him close-by, you look up at him.  </p><p>“I didn’t know you were a prosecutor.” And because you don’t know how much longer this stolen moment will last, you add: “or that you can dance this well. What other secrets are you keeping from me?” </p><p>He shoots you a small smile, “I like dancing with you.”</p><p>And <em>god</em>, you <em>adore</em> the way he holds you close, and the way his words seem to resonate against his chest, before cascading from his mouth. He leans in, warm breath fanning over your ear, drawing out a shiver and he whispers: </p><p>“I was a profiler in the FBI’s field office in Seattle, before transferring to Quantico” </p><p>You pause – almost instantly halting the dance.  </p><p>“Seattle?” </p><p>He’d lived in Seattle too? It’s an unlucky difference of years and you let your mind drift away, thinking not for the first time what would have happened if you’d gotten to know him before Nathan. Yet, it’s for naught. He would be married. You would still be younger. It’s a heedless fantasy but maybe your life wouldn’t have turned out as complicated as it is now. </p><p>You let him lead you again, restarting the dance at a slower rhythm than before, and he brings his hand up to cup your cheek, thumb running along your skin.  </p><p>“You didn’t tell me about the project in New York” he says softly. “Why didn’t you tell me back then?” </p><p>You bite your lip– not really having an answer for it. That night you’d been worried over the people that man was killing, and over Therese, and then there’d been no time to waste once he’d shown up at the condo. </p><p>“I would have understood” he muses as he leans in, his hand over your cheek moving at once, coming to circle the back of your neck possessively.</p><p>There’s a hidden implication to his words that makes you falter.</p><p>“Though I loved having you under me that night.” </p><p><em> Jesus. </em>Your eyes flutter closed as you feel his other hand grip tightly your waist, dragging your body flush to his. He dips his head down, his mouth mere inches from yours. </p><p>Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours, and you vaguely remember that the BAU or Penelope must be witnessing this all through the cameras. But that’s a split-second thought that doesn’t bother you at all. You hold in a breath, bracing yourself for the kiss you know will come. </p><p>Hotch stops, looks up, and you notice that the music around you has paused as well. </p><p>“Ladies and gentlemen -” </p><p>You twist your head to the left towards the loud voice interrupting everything – to where a woman with white hair and a long dress covered in Swarovski crystals stands, talking on a microphone. </p><p>Meeting her eyes, you feel bitter cold.  </p><p>Hotch straightens up, immediately detaches from you, and turns you both to face towards the podium, his arm resting around your waist. </p><p>“- thank you for joining us for this event.” your former mother-in-law, Lucille Anderson, continues even louder.  </p><p>“Some of you may think this is our annual Anderson gala which my family throws to commemorate and celebrate together our advancements and possible future collaborations.” </p><p>Her eyes leave yours as she looks towards the rest of the audience, commanding the room with her presence and raucous voice. </p><p>“However, we are glad to welcome you to our inaugural event – celebrating the launching of Clover.” </p><p>You glance at Hotch with panic in your eyes – you're already late. </p><p>“When we first started our national technological company, Anderson Tech – which focuses on e-commerce, cloud computing, artificial intelligence, and app development, we never believed it would amass to such unprecedented success. It is now one of the Big Six companies in the U.S information technology industry – along with Google, Apple, Microsoft, Facebook and Amazon. We have been referred to as “one of the most influential economic and cultural forces in the world”. We will soon become multinational.” </p><p>This was her go-to speech at every single event the Andersons organized – even when her husband was alive, she never let him address the public. You say this to Hotch, pressing yourself close to him so you can whisper in his ear as Lucille continues sprouting more facts that anyone can find on google. </p><p>“Clover was an idea that took flight since the beginning. It is an infrastructure company that assists websites with content delivery and cybersecurity. Clover’s services for blocking automated DDoS attacks will be particularly crucial to the viability of any website” </p><p>You notice from your peripheral vision Robert Ferguson on Hotch’s other side. He glances at you both, mirroring your same mistrust and disbelief.  </p><p>“Great, another service.” he breathes out, audible only to you and Hotch. “The Andersons will be in our web browsers as well now.” </p><p>“Thanks to your investments, we were able to run along with unparalleled speed and launch our earlier than scheduled.” </p><p>“She had investments?” Robert asks, throwing a look your way.  </p><p>Your heart is in your throat because the biggest investment was for sure yours – even though camouflaged thanks to Penelope’s expert hacking. </p><p>“Do the Andersons even need more money?” </p><p>Hotch’s hand is securely around you, tucking you even closer, eyebrows furrowing when he sees Lucille look your way. </p><p>“We had inspiring fans and dedicated developers working and assisting us, day and night, only so we could launch this product in the market. It is safer than a VPN and never before has there ever been a more secure internet infrastructure.” </p><p>She’s looking straight at you, her lips pulling into a grin, before leaning back close to the mic. </p><p>“I couldn’t have accomplished it without the support of one person” </p><p>You hold your breath, and look at Hotch. Is she...? </p><p>“Who has been with me, supporting me through the biggest tragedy of my life”  </p><p><em> No, for sure, she isn’t about to say what you’re thinking. </em> </p><p>“<em>Our </em>biggest tragedy.” she corrects. Robert throws you an accusatory look. </p><p>This bitch has other children – you say that to Hotch, and it’s the wrong thing apparently because even Robert hears it, looking at you even more confused than before. </p><p>“She gave the biggest investment towards our idea” </p><p>Which<em> should have been</em> untraceable. </p><p>“Even though she wanted it to be anonymous – because she has always had a heart of gold.” </p><p><em> This fucking bitch. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> And while I step behind as CFO of the company, she will dutifully lead <em>Clover</em> as the CEO – continuing the tiring work as the new Anderson generation. Ladies and gentlemen – please give a round of applause to my daughter-in-law -” </p><p>But your mind and ears stop working. All you can hear is a loud buzzing, and applause, incessant and loud and taking you out of your body at once, as if you don’t inhabit it any longer. You register Robert looking at you with a scowl, applauding like the rest of them, and the crowd of people turns to you with polite smiles on their faces. It’s as if you’re not even there – just a shell of a human being. Because they’d done it – the Andersons have finally managed to steal your person, chaining you forever in shackles, unable to escape them.  </p><p>Strong hands grip your elbows, fingers pressing to you with almost bruising force and Hotch’s staring at you, saying something with a fake smile on his face. Whatever he's saying doesn't work. Then he drags you in, planting a kiss over your mouth. His soft lips are the only warmth you feel and you cling to it in order to bring you back to your own body. He lets you go, whispering softly words that are orders and not gentle support: </p><p>“Deny<em> both</em> claims. Refute it publicly.” </p><p>You nod, and he lets out a breath, looking more worried than you.  </p><p>“Don’t be yourself” he says with a knowing look.</p><p>Okay, so<em> no violence or deceit, </em>then. </p><p>You have to pull your hand out of his hold, because he refuses to let you go. Repeating Hotch’s words in your head like a mantra, you climb the steps of the podium slowly. You almost consider just stopping mid-way through and just never going where she wants you to go.</p><p>But what Hotch said is crucial – because if your assumptions are right then she wants you to take the fall for everything. What an elaborate, well-calculated revenge. </p><p>When you near the microphone stand, she motions forward, urging you to take the floor and address the public. Positioning yourself in front of the mic, you look at Hotch – only one phrase remaining in your mind from his other two suggestions. </p><p><em> Don’t be yourself. </em> </p><p>You have to thank Nathan for unknowingly teaching you how to do that. You plaster a charming smile on your face – the proud look Hotch regards you with, making you feel like you’re finally doing something right in your life. </p><p><em>"</em>Good evening, everyone.” you start with a polite greeting, voice dripping sweet and foreign to your ears. </p><p>“What a lovely event – I am glad to see you <em>all</em> enjoying yourselves.” </p><p>You were too, before Lucille decided to spring a<em> fucking</em> job promotion on you. </p><p>“I have to admit – this was a surprise to me as it was to you.” you say with a small chuckle, the same one men easily fall for, from your experience. “But leave it up to Lucille Anderson to surprise you, right? Just like that instance when a malfunction in Anderson Tech put the whole city in a black-out a summer evening.” </p><p>Laughter ensues from the audience, and you can’t help looking at Hotch from time to time – just to check how you’re doing. </p><p>You look at Lucille with the play-act of an adoring smile. </p><p>“She’s always been-” </p><p>A<em> fucking bitch, </em>you want to say.</p><p><em> “ </em>A pillar of support for our small little family. Especially when I lost our child after Nathan disappeared-” </p><p>A few <em>awws</em> of sympathy echo in the ballroom – and Hotch’s proud look turns into a frown. Ok, so you’re <em>improvising</em> a little bit for shock value. </p><p>Hotch mouths your name at you in reprimand, and you bite the inside of your cheek, possibly enjoying this more than you should. His eyebrows go up and you shake your head, remembering again the mantra: </p><p><em> Don’t be yourself. </em> </p><p>“However, in order to grant me emotional support – she's giving me more credit than I am due.” </p><p>You pluck the mic from the stand, feeling her presence over your shoulder, and you decide to turn this into a walk-around speech, so she can’t take the mic away from your hands. She <em>can’t</em> because she’d be rude in front of all these watchful eyes. </p><p>“Unfortunately, I did<em> not</em> invest in Clover. I fear it was kept as a<em> lovely”  </em>you punctuate the words by placing a hand over your chest, as if her gesture had made you pleasantly emotional. </p><p>“delicious secret. It is<em> incredibly</em> generous of her but it is something I cannot partake in -” </p><p>You glance at her, your smile genuine now – because you’re not cowering away from her. </p><p>“I am thankful that you are considering the future generation.” You whip around towards the audience, noticing in the left, next to the band, a few of Nathan’s old employees.  </p><p>“And who better to lead this initiative than the boys from Nathan’s old office?” </p><p>You raise a hand towards them. The audience turns to them, and they look between each other and you. </p><p>“Timothy, Taylor, Bill-” they step forward, confused but slowly starting to enjoy the attention, “Please give it up – for their quiet dedication to the work and constant support.” </p><p>You remember them distinctly because they’d always be the ones you talked to when you went to see Nathan in the office. They’d always relay you the lies Nathan had instructed them to recite. Now, Lucille has to deal with the aftermath of not including Nathan's biggest supporters and most important web developers in the management mix. Then you remember how Nathan always used to mention his father whenever he takes charge of events. </p><p>“I know for certain, that if my late father-in-law, god rest his soul, were alive today, he’d have a heart attack -” </p><p>More laughter from the audience - the man had passed away of incredibly old age.</p><p>“-if he saw an inexperienced,<em> naïve</em>,” He <em>had </em>called you naïve once, when you presented your app to them at a family dinner Nathan had invited you to.</p><p>"-young woman be where she does<em> not </em>belong.” </p><p>He had been an <em>old, sexist, disgusting</em> old man.</p><p>“When so many of you hold degrees and diplomas in computing engineering, technology, and finance. Please, Lucille” you look at her now, walking back to the mic stand. “give this position to any of the deserving young people here – otherwise, as you all know, I will surely turn this into <em>another </em>non-profit charity.” </p><p>The laughter that comes this time from the audience is louder – because your philanthropic ways had made you famous<em> first</em>. Then came marrying Nathan.  </p><p>You place the mic back in its place, leaning in a second more.  </p><p>“<em>Heck </em>  - even Jim Anderson could be <em>incomparably</em> better than me. Enjoy your evening!” </p><p>Jim – Nathan's older brother who had led the shortest term as a CEO at Anderson Tech, almost ran the whole company to the ground (a story with which the tabloids had a field day for years – something Nathan had told you once). </p><p>You step away and with boisterous laughter accompanying your last sentences you descend the stairs. You’re lighter, even proud at yourself for the way you handled that – with no violence, and no loud and angry outbursts.  </p><p> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch watches you step down towards the crowd.</p><p>People applaud and laugh cheerily at your speech – something that Lucille had demanded you to do and had left him with a sharp painful feeling in his chest. He can’t look at the woman and not feel extreme hatred for her. He can't hear her voice and not remember the bruises on your arms that night in New York, and the small poking wound on your neck. He’d understood immediately that she’d threatened you with a knife – he’d recognized the marks left over from having seen so many victims with similar wounds in his professional life. </p><p>And he hadn’t wanted to let you go up in that podium, and be near her again. </p><p>The Attorney General he met before, Robert Ferguson, claps a hand over Hotch’s shoulder, before continuing to clap for you. </p><p>“I’ve known since the first moment I saw her” the man says, standing too close for comfort, “that that family is undeserving of her.” </p><p>Hotch sees you stride through the crowd confidently, but his eyes catch the subtle movement of your hands together whenever you feel nervous or scared. You look around the people stepping forward to talk to you, begging for your attention – <em>demanding</em> to be seen by you. But you never pause, your eyes searching for something amongst the crowd. He puts some distance with the man, as music resumes playing.  </p><p>Then you twist your head – the strands of hair you’d let loose framing your face moving as if in slow-motion – and meet Hotch’s eyes. The breath of relief you unconsciously let out, makes him stop. He watches you walk a bit faster than before, wanting to close in the distance as soon as possible, the black dress you’re donning flowing with the movement of your legs – looking longer and irresistible with your high heels.</p><p>He notices the way men and women eye you – it's inevitable, when he thinks you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life. And if someone couldn't see it - then it was your personality which drew people in, like moths to a flame.</p><p>The upper half of your dress looks like a bustier, with an elegant long line of laces going from the valley between your breasts to your navel. It had made Hotch look at you - mouth agape, and mind blanking - when you’d descended the stairs of your house. Everyone had been caught by your appearance, even Dave who’d thrown in a barely controllable compliment your way.  </p><p>It makes Hotch never want to leave your side. His heart expands and he doesn’t quite understand it. There’s a feeling burning inside his chest, resembling the warmth of the summer sun over his bare skin. He'd felt love countless times before – but it had never felt <em>this</em> overpowering. Like something big and unstoppable is taking flight inside him as he watches you near him.  </p><p>“How did I do?” you breathe out, and Hotch can’t help it when you look at him with doe eyes. He lets those same exact feelings guide him, for the first time.</p><p>He doesn’t fight it <em>anymore. </em> </p><p>He leans in, envelops you in his arms almost too forcefully; and kisses you like he’d wanted to when he asked you for a dance. The kiss is deep and passionate, your hands clinging to the material of his suit jacket, clashing him closer to you. The small moan you let out against his mouth makes him weak. Knowing you enjoy him kissing you makes him never want to stop.</p><p>Hotch lets you go only when his lungs demand air. Your eyes remain closed for a second longer, and the slow smile appearing on your lips drives him mad. </p><p>“That good, huh?” you ask with a grin, and lean in again to press a small sweet kiss to his lips, both his arms still around your waist  keeping your bodies close.</p><p>“Should I do more speeches?” </p><p>"No. Not if she's near you."</p><p>Hotch shakes his head, glad you’re back to your old self instead of the persona you’d taken on, on stage. You press yourself closer to him, not wanting to part away, and the sweet smell of your perfume and hair makes him dizzy.  </p><p>“Do you want to dance again?” you whisper with a mischievous smile on your face.</p><p>He recognizes that look too well – it's how you<em> always</em> end up sleeping together. </p><p>He thinks about the mission, the reason why you’re both here, even though there’s nothing else he wants to do more but dance with you again. </p><p>“I have to call Garcia” he says, and your expression changes to a serious one – and he feels lucky you’re not disappointed. “I have to ask her how she knew about your donation” </p><p>You nod, and you both look down at his chest, as your hands smooth down his jacket. He squeezes your hands before you part from him.</p><p>“Okay, go” you say.  </p><p>Hotch leans in, wanting to kiss you again, not bearing the thought of how much longer it will take before it becomes unacceptable again. He stops himself, taking a step back instead. </p><p>“Don’t kill her” he says instead and you stifle a laugh. </p><p>The thought of Garcia having witnessed all of that bothers him now as he steps out of the ballroom and into the long corridor, until he’s at a quieter part of the building. He passes a set of bathrooms that look to be unused from the party people. She picks up right away when he calls. </p><p>“Garcia-” he starts. </p><p>“Uh... he-hello, s-sir” </p><p>He can’t see her face but he knows she’s blushing just from the small stuttering of the words. Had grown accustomed to it whenever Morgan and her spoke on the phone or through video and someone who wasn’t Morgan picked up instead. </p><p>“Lucille Anderson knew about the anonymous donation you hid. It was supposed to be untraceable.” </p><p>He hears typing in the background, and then a huff. </p><p>“It still is” she replies. “It doesn’t say anything here” </p><p>She must have deduced it was from you, either way. She’d threatened you and then the next day 1 million appear on her bank account. Maybe that’s why she’d resorted to handing you the CEO position as a way to still incriminate you. </p><p>“Okay, thanks Garcia” he says. “Let me know when you’re ready for us to head to the server room” </p><p>“Yes - it’s going to take me another hour at least! I’m already in the system which is ridiculous considering they’re literally a tech company, priding themselves over being, you know -<em>the freaking best.</em> But I just need to make sure that the server room is really on fifth floor, or if they have another one. I will be able to confirm in a few.” </p><p>“Great. Thanks” </p><p>He hangs up before she thinks about asking something in regards to the small performance in the ballroom. He shoots a text to Dave as well, asking him how it is going, who replies just as fast that they haven’t found anything new yet.  </p><p>He’s on his way out when he hears your voice – exasperated and panicked, and he moves on automatic, hurrying to where you are. </p><p>“...get off me, Roger!” </p><p><em> That</em> man – that despicable, <em>rat </em>of man <em>–  </em>has a grip around your wrist that won’t budge. You push him with your free hand, but he drags you closer. He’s boozed up already – Hotch notes it even with the distance. His face and chest are flushed a deep red, shirt unbuttoned to his stomach, flailing loose around him.</p><p>Hotch takes off the Rolex with calculated calmness as he steps closer – the rage building up slowly and steadily over him. He’d wanted to punch the man since the first time he’d heard the way he spoke to you in the race track through the earpiece. Now, he can do it with liberty. </p><p>“Stop lying. I know you want me. I know you’re doing all of<em> this </em>to make <em>me</em> jealous.” </p><p>You grimace, and the look in your eyes is not scared. It’s defiant and combative – the same one he’d seen when Hotch had first met you. And he stops as he sees you twist your arm and curl up your fist, then without warning – you jab your elbow aggressively under Roger’s chin, hitting the underside of his jawline. The force of the hit makes him let you go at once, slam back against the elevator doors loudly and cry out in pain. The sudden closing of his mouth causes him to bite into his tongue and lip, blood lashing out of his mouth. </p><p>You inch your face closer, and pinch with a thumb and index finger his nose, rendering him submissive as he opens his mouth in pain unable to breathe otherwise. Blood gushes out, but you don’t bat an eye. </p><p>“I will<em> fucking</em> kill you, Roger.” you spit out the words, and the man braces with his arms at his sides, his eyes wide and terrified. “If you ever so <em>breathe</em> in my face again...” </p><p>You whisper something else in his ear that Hotch can’t hear, but you let him go only when he nods. He feels stuck almost as he watches you regain that same aloofness, and you’re surprised when you notice Hotch standing nearby. Excuses start pouring out of you: </p><p>“I-I had to... He was be-being..." </p><p>Hotch closes the distance, legs moving on their own, eyes glued to the drop of blood the man’s left over the inside of your elbow.  </p><p>“Hotch, I didn’t-” </p><p>“Are you okay?” he asks, cutting you off.</p><p>Your eyebrows pinch together when he looks at you with worried eyes.</p><p>"Yes. I've seen predatory men all my life, Hotch. I worked in strip clubs, lived alone, and seen the worst of men - I know how to deal with them. <em>That</em> was nothing".</p><p>“Did he touch you? Did he try anything?” </p><p>Realization hits you -  </p><p>“Oh, no. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Roger is the worst but he’s not...” you bite your lip, unable to continue.</p><p>“I guess I don’t know if he ever <em>would.”  </em>you admit with a defeated sigh. “I haven’t exactly been the best at reading people, so there’s that.” </p><p>He wipes the blood off of you and you throw him a quizzical look. </p><p>“C’mon” he says, offering his hand. “let’s hang around a bit more before Garcia gives us the go-ahead for the server room.” </p><p>You nod, clasping your hand around his, but the look in your eyes remains the same.</p><p> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>There are a million things left unsaid.  </p><p>Hotch asking you to dance, the almost-kiss, the silent support, then the kisses and embrace, even him witnessing you (almost) break Roger’s jaw – they're all pushed to the background as you both make your way to the server room. You tag along with Hotch, because he says he looks too much like a fed – and you know he’s half using your own words against you, but a part of you hopes he’s worried about leaving you alone with Lucille – and even Roger now. </p><p>You’re keeping watch at the door, needlessly so, as Garcia is already keeping an eye at the cameras overhead, letting him know before someone comes down the hall. But you need the distraction.  </p><p>And you<em> need</em> to have your eyes set somewhere else apart from Hotch’s tall figure when he reaches easily over his head to plug in a small device. You <em>desperately</em> need the distraction when he bends over the desk at the corner, hands over the table, arms straight, looking ahead as he listens to whatever Garcia tells him in the earpiece he put on when you left the ballroom. </p><p>More than fifteen minutes are spent inside the room as he orders Garcia what to look for, and where to focus, and she relays what she finds.  </p><p>“... okay” he looks up, straightening at once, and glances at you. </p><p>“What?” you ask. </p><p>He ignores your question. “Yes, copy <em>everything</em>, Garcia” </p><p>It takes five more minutes and he unplugs every device, putting them back inside his inside pocket. He stops before you, and you place a hand over the door handle. </p><p>“Is it clear?” he asks her.</p><p>He nods at you and you open the door. You trail behind him, sticking close to him as he leads you through the maze of halls and rooms, under the direction of Garcia. You luckily make it out to the administrative department without a hitch, and to the hall leading to the elevators. The set of elevators is right ahead, and you’re almost near them, ready to head back downstairs without a problem. All of the sudden he halts. </p><p>“What is it, Garcia?” </p><p>She must say something bad to him because he twists around to face you, his eyes wide - </p><p>“I’m sorry” he says hurriedly and before you can register or say anything, he pushes you harshly against the wall, your back hits the wooden panel behind – emitting a gasp out of you.</p><p>The elevator pings, alerting you both of someone reaching the floor you’re on, where you’re not supposed to be. The fear of being found makes adrenaline pump through your blood – <em>that</em> and Hotch’s roughness. </p><p>Hotch reaches for your thigh, hand hooking under it, squeezing you through the fabric of the dress. He wraps your leg around him, and presses at once his body to yours -<em>dangerously so</em>. Latching your hand to his side, you drag him even closer. You feel the <em>entirety </em>of him even through the layers between and it makes the heat in your chest move swiftly all the way down below, to where he’s pressed against you.  </p><p>“You could just kiss me” you say breathlessly, his breath fanning your nose and lips.</p><p>You hear in the background the elevator doors slide open, as well as the thrumming of your heart in your ears. </p><p>“I fear I won’t know to stop if I do” he lets out, causing painful butterflies to take flight inside your belly.</p><p>Your eyes catch the earpiece over his left ear and you reach out, covering the side of his head with a palm.  </p><p>“...hey! You can’t be here!” </p><p>Hotch turns his head towards the voice, sheepishly – the security guard glaring at you both. </p><p>“Excuse us” he says, letting go of your leg, but keeping his head angled to you so he doesn’t see the earpiece. “We just wanted some privacy.” </p><p>The man looks at him, narrowing his eyes. Hotch takes a step back, as if to let him see you better. When he does, he nods, throws a weird apprehensible look to Hotch and then points at the elevator. </p><p>“Just... get out of here.” </p><p>Hotch grabs your hand, not waiting any longer, and marches you to the elevator. He presses number four, shooting a grateful look to the security guard. When the doors close, he lets out a frustrated sigh. He looks at you apologetically. </p><p>“I hated that he looked at you like that. I hated that. Sorry.”  </p><p>You cross your arms over your chest. “<em>Did</em> you, now?” </p><p>He nods, cocking his head to the side not quite getting your words.  </p><p>“My thigh begs to differ. I thought for sure I felt the entire length of your<em>dic </em> <em> -</em>” </p><p>“<em>Christ </em>” he takes out the earpiece aggressively, shutting it off. It makes you laugh. “We are giving Garcia a show tonight. At least, let’s not have her hear us as well.” </p><p>You step closer to him – forgetting the fact why this can never work, why he possibly hates you, and everything else. Because if he does hate you, then he’s showing it in<em> funny</em> ways. </p><p>You point at the earpiece in his palm. “Can you ask her what’s a room with <em>no</em> cameras?” </p><p>Hotch’s eyes go dark, reading at once your intentions.  </p><p>“I don’t have to.” he says, his voice suddenly hoarse.  </p><p>When you’re out the elevator, you try not to focus too much on the cameras at every corner as he leads you down the corridor. Your heart is beating steadily, breathing coming out raggedy as your skin prickles with expectation and excitement. He pushes the door of what looks to be unused bathrooms, and you raise a palm, hiding your face from the camera overhead. It's useless because Garcia can recognize you both even without seeing your faces.  </p><p>“Don’t you care that you’re not being <em>very</em> professional right now, Hotch?” you tease as soon as you’re both inside, and lock the door. He hoists you up with ease, wrapping your legs at once around his waist. </p><p>“I don’t care about anything else, right now.” he breathes out over your lips – the words sending a shiver down your spine. </p><p>He places you gently over the luxuriously-wide counter between the two sinks of the bathroom. He kisses you once, deeply, stealing your breath away, your arms wrapping around his neck at once. </p><p>“... Aaron" he breathes out against your lips, once he parts. “Call me Aaron, tonight” </p><p>You nod dumbly, feeling overwhelmed with emotion. He wants you to call him by his <em>first name</em> – no more Agent, or Hotch. <em>Just </em>Aaron? </p><p>“Okay, <em>Aaron </em> ” you oblige with a smile, relishing in the way he regards you upon doing so. Hearing his name from your lips makes him kiss you again, feverishly this time. “You  <em> better</em> make me scream <em>it</em> too.” </p><p>He smiles, dimples popping up attractively at the sides of his mouth. He kneels down before you, his shoulders parting your legs as he nestles between them. And when you<em> do</em> say his name again – it’s in reverence and blissfully, while panting - your shoulders biting against the mirror behind, your fingers pulling at his hair, his mouth between your legs worshipping you with attention. </p><p>Deciding to head out much later, and only when you both look a bit more kept-together, your hair now loose, and his suit jacket and vest off – you both make a point to not look at the cameras. You’re halfway out to the parking lot when Hotch stops, letting go of your hand at once.</p><p>You watch him walk to Roger, who’s talking his ear off to some innocent girl – probably using the bruise on his chin to his advantage already. Roger’s demeanor changes immediately as soon as he sees Hotch. He holds his Rolex in one hand and with the other – he lands a right across Roger’s cheek, causing him to fall to the floor. He puts back his Rolex like nothing’s happened and gets in the car. </p><p>“I’ve wanted to do that for so long” </p><p>“No. I get it.” you let out with a laugh. You thought he'd always be in control but seeing him do that - it makes a certain swell of pride and pleasure course through your veins.</p><p>Watching the office building disappear as he drives to the street, makes you remember the finality of this evening. This had been another fantasy too – acting like you’re together and dating at a gala. It’s a wildly ridiculous fantasy you’ve both allowed yourselves to enjoy.</p><p>More than anything you can’t imagine seeing the rest of the BAU. </p><p> </p><p>-- </p><p> </p><p>You’re not too far ahead in your drive and when you notice him diverge into a faster lane - that’s when you ask.  </p><p>“You didn’t tell them?” You’d meant for your voice to sound confident, like that of a killer.</p><p>Yet it’s almost inaudible with the sounds of the cars outside, and even that of his car, as he speeds up in freeway. Hotch doesn’t answer until he’s back on a slower lane, the car going back to the speeding limit.  </p><p>“No.” He breathes out, sounding almost defeated, and your heart skips another beat.</p><p><em> What does it mean when a man who looks like he lives by protocol decides to disregard them completely? </em>  </p><p>“It’s not admissible” he says, his scowl on his face unmoving – and if possible, rendering him more attractive, “We were sleeping together”  </p><p>You almost croak a laugh.   </p><p>Yeah...Imagine<em> that </em>scenario.  </p><p>“I didn’t say it<em> while</em> we were having sex, Hotch.”  you correct, changing also his terminology of the act<em>.</em> You turn to look at the road ahead, “I’m pretty sure you made up that rule.”  </p><p>He doesn’t answer, but treats driving like a task with the most excruciating need for unwavering attention. You turn to the side window, looking at the view outside, mind now caught with Lucille's attempt tonight at entrapping you. Maybe prison wouldn’t be so bad if it means she’ll stop trying. It had worked for the three months you went in for embezzlement.  </p><p>“I would have to explain to them<em> when </em>you told me” he says after so long that you almost forget your question. “I’d have to tell them we slept together mere minutes ago”  </p><p><em> God</em>, why does he keep saying <em>sleep together -</em> as if you're both high school sweethearts?   </p><p><em> “Ah”  </em>you exhale, almost disappointed “so, you’re protecting your reputation and credentials”  </p><p>He gives you a sharp nod, and you note now, since entering the vehicle, that his entire body looks tense.  </p><p>“Does that mean that whatever I say to you while we’re having sex is not admissible in court?”  </p><p>He glances at you quickly – his look of disapproval not going remiss.   </p><p>You grant him a cocky grin, “Problem solved then – we should just continue having sex so I stay out of prison. I'm not opposed to that idea at all.”  </p><p>His jawline clenches tight.   </p><p>“How long do you think you can last-”  </p><p>The words die in your mouth as the car drives over a bump, and you turn to look at what you must have hit or driven over. But it’s nothing of the like. He exits the freeway, and he swerves the car to the side, breaking once it is fully out of the asphalt. And thank <em>fuck</em> that you have the seatbelt on otherwise the sharpness of him hitting the brakes would have made you slam over the dashboard.  </p><p>“...what?” you glare at him, then at the road behind. “What the hell are you doing?”  </p><p>Hotch turns the engine off.   </p><p>“I know about Nathan.” He says, and he doesn't hide it anymore – he never was – but he meets your gaze boldly, making you cower back. “<em>We</em> know about the abuse he inflicted on Maria for months. And we know what he was doing for the club.”  </p><p>All air leaves your lungs.  </p><p>“We know” he repeats, letting the words sink in properly. “We’re working under the assumption that he’s been running a human trafficking ring”  </p><p><em> Of course,</em> you realize with a breath. That’s why he stopped the car and even turned it off, to turn his body to face you – it's because he needs to study your reaction still, like the <em>profiler </em>he is. Your hands are neatly folded over your lap, and he looks at you then at your hands. He moves as if in slow-motion, reaching for your hands, placing a hand over yours for silent support. He expects you to flinch or push him back and half of you wants to. But the warmth of his touch makes you feel human and whole again.  </p><p>“If you come forward and confess –” his voice is soft, despite the gravity of the situation, “we will make sure you get a deal, so we can prove what the rest of them did.”  </p><p>You shake your head, but he keeps talking.  </p><p>“<em>I wil</em><em>l</em> help you get a deal – <em>I will </em>take care of it.”  </p><p>His gentle words are full of resolve, but they feel like daggers to you heart. The more he talks the more guilty you feel.  </p><p>“If you tell us what he’s done, we’ll be able to get his family too–“  </p><p>You can’t take it anymore.  </p><p>“Hotch, stop” you interrupt, “there’s<em> nothing</em> to tell. I have nothing to say about him.”  </p><p>He looks at you confused.  </p><p>“But he’s-“  </p><p>“You’re assuming I did it as a noble act, Hotch. But there was nothing noble about it. I’m not Maria. I didn’t go after those men because I knew something. I didn’t know back then, or know now who they are or what they did.”  </p><p>He’s quick to talk.  </p><p>“We saved a woman yesterday. She was in Watson’s basement.”  </p><p>You take in a sharp breath, feeling the loud beating of your panicked heart resonating in your ears.  </p><p>“Watson was a serial killer. He’s been doing it for 8 years before Nathan went missing. And he’s been helping him“  </p><p>Your entire body is shaking, because you never thought it’d be<em> true </em>– a part of you, despite everything, wanted Nathan to have lied that night. You wanted him to have a sliver of morality and goodness. Because then that meant you chose an evil man after all – you dated, fell in love and married someone <em>utterly</em> evil.  </p><p>You feel Hotch let go of your hands, his hand coming to cup your cheek softly, thumb rubbing slow circles over your skin. Even after everything it manages to bring you back into your body and grants you comfort. It’s more painful than anything else. When you look at him, he’s closer, earnest eyes looking at you like never before, and you don’t think your feeble heart can take it.  </p><p>“What if I did it for a stupid reason, Hotch?” You mutter between your teeth. “what if I did because I caught him cheating – or because he was stealing from me?”  </p><p>Your words don’t push him away, like you want them to.  </p><p>“I know you” he simply says, like it’s a fact – like he’s giving a mere statement. “I know the type of person you are.”  </p><p><em> Does he? </em> </p><p>When you can still live with yourself like this – like nothing ever happened? When it doesn't even bother you?</p><p>“What if I don’t regret it? What if I derived pleasure from it like my own father?”  </p><p>He takes in a breath, and his eyebrows pinched together are not meant to be threatening this time – it’s a look of worry, and even something else. <em>Regret </em>maybe?  </p><p>“I can’t keep this in” he lets out, a quiet battle happening behind his eyes.   </p><p>And of course, he has a duty to continue, an oath to uphold and you’re an unsub after all. A part of you is hurt over it too – because what’s the <em>worst</em> thing that can happen if he solely lets it go?  </p><p>“You still don’t understand why I did it – do you?” you hear yourself ask.   </p><p>Hotch leans back against his seat, breaking the point of contact. His expression turns to that of an agent.  </p><p>“You think it would have been easier for me to call the police or anyone else to help. You still<em> blindly</em> believe in justice and everyone getting what they deserve. I won’t blame you for doing your job, Hotch.”  </p><p>He shakes his head, torn between meeting your eyes and looking at the street ahead.  </p><p>“Put yourself in my shoes. What would you do if you learned that someone had been hurting your family, right in front of you?” Because that’s what Maria had been for you too.  </p><p>“What would you do if someone hurt them? Would you be capable of killing for them, <em>Aaron</em>?”  </p><p>He refuses to answer, letting the question linger in the weighted silence.   </p><p>“The cameras” he rebuts after minutes passed in quiet, watching your reaction. “I haven’t forgotten about them – do they still work?”  </p><p>After everything he still remembers the first time he and Gideon visited the house.  </p><p>“Yes”  </p><p>“We need to see them.”  </p><p>His attitude makes you steel yours. You glance at the cars passing by the SUV. You don’t know how long you’ve been parked to the side of the road, but you know it is nearing sunrise.  </p><p>“Do you have a warrant?”  </p><p>It’s a low blow because you know he’s doing you a favor by not telling anyone yet – and it’s the only way to prove what Nathan’s done.  </p><p>“No” he says, frowning.</p><p>Whatever moment you’d had this evening vanishes in the air.  </p><p>“Then, I can’t show you anything”  </p><p>You’re being stubborn, and he can see right through you as well. But he lets it go.  </p><p>It’s one of the most difficult things he’s done – but he lets it go. He turns on the ignition and the turn signal.   </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks as always for reading and all the love!!  💕💕💕<br/>as alwaysss lemme know what you think!!<br/>Thought the pace of this chapter needed to be slow and for them to have a moment of quiet realization - important for the development of the characters (at least i hope that came thru lmao)</p><p>(i didnt wanna end this chapter on a cliffhanger to be cruel lmao but yes next chapters will be fast and action lol)</p><p>(also acqua e sapone - means naturally beautiful (with like, no effort)<br/>(ive started uploading this story on wattpad too lol!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Bag of Bones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The BAU finally knows the truth - and Hotch and you deal with a new barrier</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey folks, back with a new one! sry for the wait</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The closer you get to the house – recognizing the streets, the passing stores, and the luxurious villas – the more you feel like you are running out of time. There are words pressing at the tip of your tongue, wanting to pour out of your mouth. It feels like the distance between you and Hotch is stretching wide, even in the small space of the car.</p><p>You look at him one more time – one <em>last</em> time, you remind yourself. The strands of hair falling carelessly over his forehead, midnight hair which your slender fingers were tugging at, for what feels like a lifetime ago now; his broad shoulders, steady and strong under your touch; his dimples and cheekbones; and the slow curvature of his lips upwards whenever a smile escapes him.  </p><p>He stops the car but you refuse to look ahead, careful not to break the moment – because if he’s going to rat you out then it means you’re going to be back to square one. To when you hated him and he despised you. </p><p>Hotch turns towards you, his Adam’s apple bops once when he swallows. He holds his breath, gaze transfixed on you. His skin is cast in blue and red lights, flashing across his attractive face. The look in his eyes is unreadable, but his eyebrows are pulled down as if he’s apologetic and sad, beyond repair. </p><p>Your throat clogs up and you want to say something – it’s a foreign desperation that has never before stirred within you.</p><p>You want to say aloud: that you wish you’d met sooner, possibly even in different circumstances and not in your trailer, where violence was all you knew; how you even fantasized of different events bringing you two together; and how even with the short time elapsed between you two, you feel more attached and drawn to him than you’ve ever felt to Nathan. </p><p>And you want to<em> confess</em> that you – </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He opens the door, and that’s when you hear them. </p><p> </p><p>Police sirens, loud and jarring in the environment around you, before they shut off at once. </p><p>Twisting your body around you see your house, police cars, CSI and whatever the like. People in uniforms swarm your house. Just like they did when Nathan first disappeared – except for the FBI-mandated SUV vehicles that are new. You storm out, your feet moving on their volition. The logical, cold part of your brain begs you to rein it in; not show emotions; not appear frantic. But you can’t. </p><p>Because you see your mattress, the one you’d substituted and left in front of the door of your basement, dragged out in front of your yard. The marital mattress which you’d shared with Nathan before you found out the truth about him. </p><p>And your blood runs hot, your hands burn. </p><p>Running in your high heels is painful, but as soon as you’re past your front door you toe them off to continue barefoot. None of the BAU agents are around and you only see strange men and women. A few even ogle at you and your state of distress. There’s dirt and gravel over your wooden floor which goes to the kitchen, where men and women take off paintings and dust away for prints. The trail leads upstairs but you halt – noticing the commotion coming from Nathan’s office.  </p><p>There are loud discussions going on when you enter – the bookshelves of his office are torn from the walls, his desk is deconstructed and reduced to pieces of plywood, papers and documents being carefully archived and tucked into boxes by uniformed agents with gloves, and everything is a mess.  </p><p><em> Everything. </em> </p><p>But your gaze is fixed on one spot where the carpet flooring is pulled apart – revealing a hidden door to his basement. </p><p>You suck in a breath, feeling your heart about to burst out of your chest. Someone is calling your name but your eyes are glued to the open door. It’s been here all along – right under your nose. Right where you last confronted him. Your feet move on their own, gravitating towards the voices you hear echoing inside. What if there’d been a person down there all this time – like Hotch had found in Watson’s basement?  </p><p>What if killing Nathan had inadvertently caused a poor woman, child or even man to be left alone to die in hunger and thirst, chained for all this time? What if you’d slept with someone’s corpse under the footing of your house? </p><p>You stop – unable to move.  </p><p> </p><p>“...Ma'am” An officer comes out, looking at you confused but greeting you politely all the same.</p><p>As if they’re grateful for your<em> fucking </em>collaboration. </p><p>When you hear your name again, a hand clutches your elbow pulling you back – you whip around expecting to meet Hotch. </p><p>“You shouldn’t be here.” Agent Morgan bellows. “It’s better if you wait outside.” </p><p>You've never talked to him for more than five minutes and none of you cared for it. Yet it doesn’t stop you from begging, hurt seeping out of your pores and with your voice. </p><p>“<em>Please,</em> tell me there’s not a body down there”  </p><p>He looks taken aback from your question, and he takes a moment to study your face before shaking his head. </p><p>“No. It's just an office” </p><p>His answer is enough to make you regain your composure. You pull your arm out of his grasp. He holds out a paper for you to take, knowing what you’re going to ask already. </p><p>“We have a warrant to search the premises.” </p><p>You hold in a breath – Hotch <em>fucking lied. </em>Your stomach twists in painful knots, and the bile that rises from your stomach is violent. He held you, murmured sweet words, kissed you –  </p><p>For <em>fuck’s sake </em>he had sex with you in the bathroom stalls, just so he can buy time? Turn around and <em>do this</em>? Agent Morgan says something else but your entire body and mind are focused into stopping yourself from puking right here, in front of all of them. </p><p>You just take the paper from his hands, and walk out. The sense of panic that had engulfed you in the car leaves once you’re out of the house and you can no longer see people tearing apart your old life. You scan the outside – neighbors go out to pick up their newspapers and mail but linger on their front yard longer than necessary; people pull their curtains to peek out at the scene in front of them. It’s the exact image from back then, but you’d known it was coming. You’d been prepared for it.  </p><p>There’s an eerie sense of calm overtaking you as you see <em>Hotch</em>, standing next to a police car, bidding goodbye to the Police Chief, who you also recognize.  </p><p>He looks up, sensing your gaze and he’s a stranger<em> again</em>.  </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>He calls out at you as you jump out of the car – wanting to stop and explain that all this is not what it looks like, but it’s just following protocol. He'd missed a few calls from the BAU since going into the bathroom and had intended to talk to you before it came to this. Dave sees you run into the house as well but he’s not ready for the other man’s questioning. Especially since you’re still wearing Hotch’s suit jacket. </p><p>“Did you find anything yet?” Hotch asks once Dave nears him.  </p><p>“Yes. There’s a hidden basement under the floorboards of his office.” </p><p>Hotch looks at the front door again, imagining the pain you must be feeling again, and his insides gnaw in an unfamiliar way. </p><p>“No bodies” Dave says, assuming he’s thinking about what they’d found in Watson’s building. “Looks like an archival office and we have to go through everything.” </p><p>“Cameras?” Hotch asks. He’d told them (on the drive to your house to let you know about Clover) that Gideon and him had noticed the distrust you had in your husband when you got married. </p><p>Dave shakes his head. “They’re there, but they haven’t worked since Nathan went missing. Garcia confirmed it.” </p><p>Hotch shoves his hands in his pockets, thinking back to what Garcia had told him inside that server room – that the Andersons had an encrypted file with your name on it. </p><p>“Anything new from Garcia?” Hotch asks.  </p><p>“No” Dave answers, “nothing apart from what she told us an hour ago that all men had been traced for years by Nathan. He’d been keeping tabs on them to make sure they don’t go off script or snitch.” </p><p>Hotch nods and Dave continues: “Reid and Prentiss are at Nathan’s office, at Anderson Tech. JJ is holding down the press for the moment. Let’s just hope the neighbors keep quiet.” </p><p>Hotch sees the police chief as he approaches them. </p><p>“Are you okay, Aaron?” Dave asks all of the sudden, making Hotch stop in surprise. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“It’s just...” the other man holds his gaze with curiosity, but then shakes his head, “nothing. You just look distraught.” </p><p>“I am not -” </p><p>“SSA Hotchner” the police chief greets, interrupting them.  </p><p>Dave leaves them as he starts talking about how he’d never thought he’d be back to the Andersons again, and he starts sprouting bullshit upon bullshit of how much of a good citizen Nathan Anderson had been. How he’d even donated countless times to the department. </p><p>Hotch makes up an excuse, telling him he needs to talk to the technical analyst, with the intention of really doing so as he walks away – but then he turns around, feeling your eyes on him... Like he’s learned to tell now. </p><p>You’re barefoot, looking almost too small and frail as you stand under the doorframe of the entrance – and you’re out into the stone pavement, then onto the asphalt with no shoes on. Each step forward is measured, confident, and your head is held high, never breaking eye contact with him. And he recognizes that defiant look in your eyes – it's the same one he’d seen when you confronted Roger. The same one he imagines you had when you killed Nathan. And he wonders for a moment, if your hands had ever shaken while you shot or stabbed your husband. He doesn’t think they did.  </p><p>He can almost hear what your neighbors must be saying to each other– black dress, fiery hair, and barefoot, looking unafraid as you stride towards him. It's no fault of theirs that they’re certain you’re a murderess. He braces himself, because even if you’re shorter and undoubtedly weaker than him – he knows still, like he’d known back then at your trailer – you can hurt a man, albeit Hotch maybe differently. </p><p>You stop before him, and hold up the warrant.  </p><p>“When were you going to tell me?” your voice is cold and demanding. “Before sex? Because you sure didn’t afterwards.” </p><p>He frowns, hoping there’s nobody around to hear your words. </p><p>“Did you read it?” </p><p>“I don’t need to<em> fucking </em>read it.” you retort, hands at your sides bunched up into fists. He senses that where’s your rage is going so you appear controlled. </p><p>“I know what’s on it.I’ve seen enough in my lifetime. You had a warrant when you stormed the trailer park where my father lived. Seattle PD had one when they stormed my house after Lucille demanded to do so – hoping to find Nathan’s corpse hidden inside my wardrobe.” </p><p>Even through the words, your voice remains emotionless. </p><p>“Is this what you always wanted to do from the beginning – ransack my house?” </p><p>You haven’t read the paper – Hotch knows so for sure. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be taking this so personally, even though he knows he deserves your words. </p><p>“I let you inside.” You narrow the distance, spitting the words out as you look up at him, voice a whisper. “I let you sleep in my rooms, eat my food and drink my coffee – you didn’t need a <em>fucking warrant</em> to search my house. I would have let you if you’d asked. I would have let you destroy it to the ground if you needed to do so, Hotch.” </p><p>“Would you have?” He rebuts, remembering the discussion on the side of the road. He’d asked about the footage from the cameras, something you insist on keeping to yourself. If they could prove Nathan did everything then Hotch could find a way – not to justify it as he still doesn’t know what happened but at least... </p><p>“Yes. I would.” you reply with no hesitation, then you remember something else. “Is that why we stayed all night? Because you needed to buy time to get the warrant and storm my place?” </p><p>There’s another question you want to ask and he reads it on your face, but with these many eyes looking in – officers, neighbors, and for sure Morgan and Dave, who he can see in his peripheral vision – he has to lie. </p><p>“It was a necessary evil” </p><p>You huff out in anger, stepping back. </p><p>“<em>Necessary</em> evil.” you make a mockery of his words by repeating them. “It didn’t sound like it when you begged to fuck me in the bathroom stalls.” </p><p>He lets out a huff, feeling like’s been punched in the gut. Your voice is high enough that everyone in close proximity has definitely heard it. And he has stupid luck that there’s nobody around, yet it’s enough to bring him down to the lowest level – rendering him into a disgusting vermin and a rat,<em> worse</em> than Roger.  </p><p>Hotch narrows the distance at once. He tries not to react, not when there’s so many eyes around but it bothers him deeply. He’s <em>not </em>Roger. He doesn’t want you to think that’s what sex had been for him, or that it had even crossed his mind – to use you, to waste your time. </p><p>He hates that<em> you'd even think</em> of equating him to Roger –  </p><p>“Don’t” Hotch warns, voice low and rumbling, audible only to you as he looks down into your eyes. “You need to read it. That warrant is for Nathan Anderson. We found proof in Watson’s house that they’d been communicating.” </p><p>You blink, letting your steeled façade slip for a split second, taken aback by his words. But he doesn’t let the moment go just yet, not caring how transparent he is being when he speaks again. </p><p>“I didn’t do any of <em>this</em> to investigate you”  </p><p>You shake off your shock fast, looking at him wide-eyed, curious about his statement more than what they’d found about Nathan to lead him back to your house. </p><p>“Then why did you?” you glare at him. “<em>Why did you</em> sleep with me, Hotch? Did you enjoy the power dynamic? Do you enjoy having authority so much that you wanted <em>me </em>to stroke your ego?” </p><p>Hotch is quick to respond, foregoing every kind of professional obligation he has. </p><p>“We are <em>not</em> discussing this here” </p><p>“Then, when are we?” you whisper-shout. “Was I just a body for you? Did it turn you on that I despised you first? Or does it work for you that you were so good at it that now I can’t even seem to hate you <em>anymore</em>?” </p><p>He sucks in a breath, nose flaring, and that same vein in his neck appears angry and inflamed. Your last sentence makes him stumble – a part of him had always wondered. He realizes it only now. He’d unconsciously convinced himself that you liked having sex with him solely because you were adept and an expert in redirecting your anger towards him into passion.  </p><p>“We are not discussing this <em>here</em>” He says again, and your eyes  look at something behind him. “Or <em>now</em>.” </p><p>He expects you to argue but instead of staying to discuss more you whip around, storming off once more.  </p><p>“Aaron...?” </p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut. Dave and Morgan look at him shocked, eyebrows up and bodies tensed. He holds his breath, wondering how much they’ve heard even though you both spoke in hushed words. </p><p>“You had sex with her?” Morgan asks frowning, and he watches the respect from his colleague slip away.  </p><p>They’ve heard <em>enough</em>, it seems. </p><p>“What the hell, man?” </p><p>Hotch opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. </p><p>“Since when?” Dave asks with a clinical voice.  </p><p>Hotch considers lying, but both men look at him as if they won’t tolerate anything else but the truth. </p><p>“Since the first meeting for Clover in the hotel.” </p><p>Dave nods, and Morgan shakes his head. But they let the moment pass as two police officers move past them. </p><p>“We need to interrogate her” Morgan rebuffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “To ask her if she knew about her husband’s other job.” </p><p>“I think it’s better if you go to Anderson Tech” Dave adds.  </p><p>They both want him out and even though Hotch knows they’d still follow his orders were he to oppose them - he needs the space from you. He looks up, sees you back at the front door slipping sneakers on, and he shakes his head. </p><p>He <em>needs</em> to focus on Nathan Anderson. </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p>It's hours later as Reid and Prentiss lead the police raid in Anderson Tech with a warrant that halts all operations inside the building. With Garcia joining them in Washington too, it doesn’t take them long until they get inside their files and system. Hotch’s never been the one to pace back and forth – but he feels the need to do it now, even as his feet remain stubbornly planted on one spot. He watches Prentiss and Reid enter Nathan’s office too, nodding at him as they both come to stand before Garcia, seated in the man’s desk. </p><p>“...this man was really a genius” Garcia lets out under her breath, more to herself than for the others to hear. "No wonder he led a billion-dollar company towards imminent success. The actual software that he uses – it's like layers upon layers of encryption.” She looks up at them, even though she continues typing. “Can you believe I once considered sending them a job application? He was like a God on the internet that literally everyone-” </p><p>Hotch interrupts her fast rambling. “Garcia.” </p><p>“Right. No.” she shakes her head, “of course, that was before I knew that he could be possibly... <em>you know</em>.” </p><p>“Garcia” Hotch calls her name again, “Did you find out if his family is implicated as well?” </p><p>Prentiss throws him a look. “You think the entire Anderson family is part of it?” </p><p>“Clover could be an attempt to hide all of Nathan’s dealings” Reid says. “He invented a way to make his business online.” </p><p>“Right” Garcia chimes in, “He’s basically created a secure connection between himself and the internet, so all data traffic is routed through an encrypted virtual tunnel. He’s disguised his IP address when he uses the internet – and he was basically invisible to everyone, and secure against external attacks.” </p><p>“Would you be able to find out if that’s what Clover is attempting to accomplish as well, even before it starts operating?” </p><p>“I mean” she stops typing completely, “it’s now on the market so I can’t stop it anymore. The only way to confirm is through checking the users.” </p><p>“You think we’d be able to track them already?” Prentiss asks, turning to Hotch. “How fast can criminals act when it launched last night?” </p><p>Hotch’s scowl grows deeper. “It’s not even within our jurisdiction. I contacted the cybercrimes unit and they will take over from here on.” </p><p>“Even Nathan?”  </p><p>Hotch feels defeated, like everything that is close to the truth is slipping out of his hands. He shakes his head. </p><p>“No, we’re still in the bounds of finding evidence in relation to the other men, but Homeland Security and the Department of Justice have been notified. They will join later, if we were to confirm that this was what Nathan had been really doing.” </p><p>Reid and Prentiss nod.  </p><p>“There’s just so many things to check: Clover’s database, Brook’s and even whatever was on those men’s computers and telephones. And now even the entire Anderson Tech – stopping then at Nathan.” Garcia straightens up, and sticks her head up from over the laptop screen.  </p><p>Hotch knows it too. If they didn’t have Garcia for this case, <em>any </em>case, they’d hardly get anything done, or they would at a very slow pace.  </p><p>At their guilt-ridden faces, Garcia lets out a small smile.  </p><p>“No worries. I’ve devised a system that filters every archive at once. I’ve set certain keywords that will match amongst all the men’s retrievables, so the system runs in the background automatically.” </p><p>Hotch nods, knowing it’s what had led them into getting that warrant for Nathan’s house. </p><p>“It’s how I found out Nathan was in contact with all of these men, remember? Watson, Black, Baker and co., all of them had these weekly meetings with Nathan.” </p><p>“Male ego” Prentiss huffs out. “They were being extremely careful and untraceable but they still wanted to boast about it in public.” She glances at Reid and Hotch. “Hence that photo of all of them together as if they’re going out to play golf.” </p><p>“Yes exactly” Garcia agrees, “he would have never been found if it weren’t for that photo.” </p><p>She raises a hand in apology. “I’m not praising him, I swear... But honestly-” </p><p>“No, he was a dumbass” Prentiss says, not caring that the police officers around them poking around the office can hear their comments. </p><p>“And a<em> scumbag</em>, too.” </p><p>Hotch cocks an eyebrow – knowing that word is not part of her vocabulary. But he knows it’s part of yours. Which reminds him: </p><p>“That file you found in the servers -”  </p><p>She glances up, blushing slightly, remembering what she’d seen in that ballroom, and later heard on the 4th floor and then in the elevator. She’d turned the cameras away when she’d seen you both make your way hurriedly to the bathroom. (And even though Garcia knew what was happening inside, she’d made up different excuses in order to cope with the startling revelation.) </p><p>“Oh” she gasps, remembering the file on your name. “Yes, I didn’t start looking at it yet, because well -” she motions around at the room they’re in. “But I can look at it now?” </p><p>“Yes.” Hotch says with no hesitation. He circles the desk, and stops behind Garcia so he can peek at the screen above her shoulder. Reid and Prentiss follow his cue as well, all of them making a group around Garcia. </p><p>She types deftly over her keyboard, the folder with your name appearing on the screen– Hotch reads it explicitly now when it sits over an empty desktop.  </p><p>She clicks the folder twice and it opens. There’s another folder titled pictures, and then simply documents, named in random numbers and letters. Garcia opens one and the first document is like a resume: all your previous employment records, educational experience and even where you’ve lived. </p><p>“A CV?” Reid asks aloud, blinking at the information.  </p><p>Another document and this time it’s property deeds: of the condo in New York passed on by Carol Aird, then the one in Seattle. Another is an older document – proof of purchase of furniture dating a bit more than 3 years ago, before Hotch had met you. </p><p>“What about photos?” Prentiss urges on. Garcia does as she asks, clicking on the first folder – finding out that they’re all titled. They even find documents of your father's imprisonment. </p><p>“I don’t get it.” Reid mutters. “We knew they stalked her because she married into the family. But <em>he</em> did it? I thought his mother did.” </p><p>Nobody answers as Garcia clicks on another folder, and this time when it opens it’s from your months in New York before you’d even met Nathan. </p><p>“No.” Hotch says with conviction. “He targeted her.” </p><p>His words are proven right away when Garcia sees the time when all this material had been collected. They predate your move to New York. Photos of your first meeting with Nathan take the entire screen: you at a gala, wearing a long blue dress, a good distance with him, and not attempting to talk longer or be nearer. Then that same photo Hotch had seen framed in your living room when he was with Gideon: you in a band shirt and skinny jeans, surrounded by a group of friends – including your friend Therese Belivet, who they’d rescued in NYC – and Nathan. His face is turned to yours, and Hotch can even note a small hickey on his neck. </p><p>“He’d stalked her before he even met her?” Prentiss ask, as the chill that takes the room with the realization surrounds them too. “With what intention?” </p><p>Reid tilts his head to the side, not comprehending the whole thing, “She’s a low-risk target too. Why not just -” He bites his tongue, not going further.</p><p>Though they all know what he was going to ask, if Nathan had really been running a human trafficking ring. </p><p>Why had Nathan targeted you only to end up marrying you? Why hadn’t he turned you into a victim?  </p><p>“Wait -” Garcia closes the folders, and she types furiously. “The entire software of SafeCity is here as well.” </p><p>“SafeCity?” Hotch repeats. “The app they launched together?” </p><p>More typing as they see her decode hidden files and folders of the software – until she stops, eyes widening in shock. </p><p>“What?” Prentiss asks first, “What’s wrong?” </p><p>“Every single user -” Garcia answers with a shuddering breath, “every single user of the app is in here.” </p><p>“...okay?” </p><p>“No” she turns sharply to her, peering from over her eyeglasses, “you don’t get it. Every single user, even the routes they took are mapped in the app. Their birthdates, personal information, addresses. Even the last address they were at when they used the app.” </p><p>“Isn't that the purpose of that app?" Prentiss asks.</p><p>“There’s an agreement that users make before using a certain app on what information you're willing to give them access to” Garcia explains. “This is <em>not</em> included in the user agreement – I know because I use SafeCity too.” </p><p>“So, what would him saving this data mean?” </p><p>Garcia presses a few buttons, and they all note what she’s doing as she types her own name. Soon enough her photograph pops up in the screen. </p><p>“Holy moly” she sucks in a breath, ”they have my social security number, my home address, the last location – I was leaving a nightclub a week ago when I last used this! – and-and...” </p><p>Hotch shares a look with the others, and they all silently come to another conclusion. </p><p>That Nathan Anderson had started considering targeting the users of the app as well. It would have been easy for him too – to get people to disappear without a trace, to then sell them or worse to his psychopath friends. </p><p>“<em>Fuck </em>” Prentiss exclaims for him. </p><p>------ </p><p> </p><p>The interrogation Agent Rossi and Morgan conduct is easier on the tone,<em> much</em> easier than you’d first fathomed when you found them rummaging in your house. They’d answered every question you had of Nathan and what they found in his office with ease. And for the first time it felt weird and liberating to have everything out in the open: Nathan’s doings, his connection with the men on that photo, and even on what he did to Maria.  </p><p>They ask if you knew – you say no. They ask if that’s why you installed the cameras – you say no. </p><p>You never had imagined that installing the cameras would have been justifiable, after all. You’d done it half and half: a part of you expected him to leave you in the night, finally listening to his family’s insistence to break up from you; part of it was rampant jealousy, because you’d both started this as something purely physical; small part of it was also mistrust leftover from your father’s crimes.  </p><p>A bigger part though was your own unpreparedness. You’d never pictured yourself married and with kids, living the nice, suburban housewife life. You’d jumped into it with Nathan – sleeping with him, dating him, then marrying. Maybe, <em>admittedly</em>, you’d installed your cameras only to track yourself. To witness as an outside viewer how you were changing around him. </p><p>“Coffee?” Agent Rossi asks, snapping you out of your trance.  </p><p>You look at him in slow-motion, zoning back into your surroundings. You’re still in the police department building, and it’s late afternoon. The interrogation has ended more than a few hours ago but they want you to stick around, and help them if something comes up in regards to Nathan’s business. And you can’t leave either – scared they might find evidence that you’d killed him. Better to be here, if they’re to arrest you. </p><p>“Oh. No, that’s okay. I think I’ll just head out for a smoke” you say, waving a hand at him, then mumble a small thanks at his offer. You pat your pockets – you'd long changed into a t-shirt and a pair of pants that JJ had lend you, after you’d been physically unable to go back to your house. </p><p>“If I can find a lighter, of course.” </p><p>A police officer hears you, and stops. He holds out a lighter and smiles briefly. Both you and Agent Rossi look at him surprised.  </p><p>“Uh, thanks” you mumble as he insists you keep it, if you can’t find him later. Though you think he wants you to try to find him later.  </p><p>“Huh” Agent Rossi acknowledges, after the man leaves you both. “Seems like all law enforcement agents are drawn to you.” </p><p>You’re midway to taking a cigarette from the pack and perching it to your lips when you pause. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>There’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “Nothing.” </p><p>You cock an eyebrow. “I heard you,<em> you know</em>.” </p><p>He shrugs, “Just stating the fact – you're seemingly a magnet.” </p><p>There’s a hidden implication there, now in plain sight. You fear when you’d left Hotch after your confrontation that they’d heard you both yell at each other in barely contained voices. But now you know – Agent Rossi and Morgan <em>definitely</em> know something is up between you and Hotch.  </p><p>You feel a slight heat take rise across your cheeks.  </p><p>“I’m really not.” you mumble. “If anything, I try to stay away from them.” </p><p>“Do you, really?” </p><p>You look down at your shoes, feeling embarrassed. “If I can help it.” you admit. </p><p>“Hm” he lets out, considering it. </p><p>“I didn’t plan for it to-to...” you say in hurry, “I wasn’t like, making a scheme or anything – it just sort of-” </p><p>“Happened?” he fills in for you. “Yes, seems to be the story for both sides.” </p><p>You feel your cheeks are full on flushed at this point. </p><p>“It was to pass the time. I wasn’t-” </p><p>Luckily Agent Rossi interjects, stopping you from whatever lie you are about to throw out. </p><p>“You’re okay, kiddo.” he says in his usual reassuring voice. “It’s just...” </p><p>He looks at you as if he’s debating whether to say this to you or not. You nod, encouraging him to continue. </p><p>“He got divorced not too long ago, and not because they fell out of love. He also has a three-years old kid who adores him. I fear where you’ll both fit in each other’s lives.” </p><p>That same lie is gone from your mind as you frown at him, taking extreme offense at his words. He’s giving you the reality check? <em>Now?</em>  Why is this coming from him and not... Hotch? You hadn’t even talked about it. Even this morning when you’d tried to breach the subject, albeit in the most inappropriate context, he’d insisted you postpone it. You’d taken it to mean<em> later</em> – it would happen later and you hoped he wanted to convince you that this hadn’t been casual for him <em>either</em>. </p><p>“No. That’s, uh... I know, obviously”  </p><p>He nods, and you point lamely at the door, desperate for the smoke break now. Had Hotch ever discussed you with him? And what does <em>not because they fell out of love</em> mean? Does that mean Hotch still loves his blonde, beautiful wife, the mother of his child, and wishes for them to get back together? </p><p>You light up the cigarette once outside, and the first hit of nicotine soothes down the nervous lines in your brain at once. </p><p>Why – out of all things – are you still thinking of Hotch? </p><p>You run a hand over your face. They know. Everyone now knows about Nathan. You should feel free and good. Instead, there’s a lump stuck in your throat, and if you stop and think about the why, you’ll end up crying. </p><p>You pace back and forth, heading back to that same corner at the back of the building, still afraid of paparazzi lingering around like there’d been last time. You flick the butt of the cigarette in the trash bin, and look up, noticing you’ve walked further down than the building of Seattle PD. The hairs at the back of your neck stick up and you freeze. Your entire body senses the danger right away and screams at you to move. </p><p>But you never get the chance to.  </p><p> </p><p>Strong arms lift you up and carry your feet off the ground. One minute you're looking down at the pavement below your white sneakers, then your vision blanks completely. Someone puts a bag, sack?, <em>something</em> over your head, and you can’t see at all. Your body is shoved around, until you’re pressed roughly to sit down, and the small space you’re in starts slowly drifting.  </p><p><em> Fuck</em>. You’re inside a moving vehicle. Cold sweat prickles at your temple and you hold your breath. You’d failed to consider one small detail – how Lucille Anderson would take this entire ordeal once out in the open. </p><p>A laugh brings you out of it – too familiar, too distinct to be anything else, of <em>anyone</em> else’s.  </p><p>The bag is torn off, giving you back your vision. You blink a few times, eyes still struggling to get accustomed to the lighting of the car.  </p><p>Then you see her, wide grin, white hair and sitting in front of you as if she’s in a business meeting. Here, with the little to no lighting as all the windows of the car are blacked-out, you see that same look Nathan had when he’d told you the truth. </p><p>That same insatiable belief that convinced him – and<em> apparently</em> all Andersons – that everything they laid their eyes on was theirs to take and own. </p><p>“There’s nobody to protect you this time.” She says, voice chilling to the bone. “Not even your federal agent of a <em>boyfriend</em>.” </p><p>You hold your breath, because she'd warned you about this, about how she'd kill you one day with her bare hands.</p><p>"Took you long enough" you bite back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks as always for reading!!💕💕💕<br/>as alwaysss lemme know what you think!!</p><p>yes sry a cliffhanger butttt the next chapter will be literally titled me&amp;my husband so yall will finally get a dive in the past and how she killed him/what Nathan told her and at last on what Hotch will decide...<br/>do you think he will tell the truth? 👀</p><p>(promise y'all we are getting v close to the ending)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Me and My Husband</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hotch is getting closer to finding the truth about Nathan - and you face Lucille at last.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yes im back - pls i edited this between class breaks lmao, so u know the drill:<br/>if u see grammar errors - no u didn't. lol</p><p>TW: mention of abuse, and abortion (lol heavy stuff, i guess) - reference to what was mentioned quiteee a  few chapters  ago</p><p>(italics - flashbacks)</p><p>and title from Mitski's song obvs</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> “Where were you yesterday?” </em> </p><p><em> You freeze by the door, unable to escape. Lying had become a second-nature to you, a survival instinct w </em> <em> hen you have  </em> <em> a father that </em><em>is</em><em> overbearing and controlling and never sober. It was further fueled </em><em>with </em> <em>  working as a manager at Red Demo, the strip club in the Ozarks, when men would ask you out and wouldn’t stop bothering you. And even after leaving Missouri, you’d hid everything – your name, your background, your origin. Not only to people you  </em> <em> met </em> <em>  to but also to your husband. </em> </p><p><em> “I told you” you turn around, flashing him an easy smile. “I was out with a friend.” </em> </p><p><em> Nathan seems to consider it, his hand is sprawled over the surface of his desk and he nods, face neutral. </em> </p><p><em> “Which friend?”  </em> </p><p><em> You furrow your eyebrows. He’s never before cared about who you hang out with. He’s never been the jealous type. Or the demanding one – you never got around to asking one another where you’d been. Even though you’d installed the cameras around the house to still keep an eye on him. </em> </p><p><em> “What do you mean?” </em> </p><p><em> He holds your gaze. “I called you several times. You didn’t pick up once.” He circles the desk, coming around to  </em> <em> stand </em> <em>  before it. He leans down against it. </em> </p><p><em> “I was busy” you reply. His tone is bugging you now. “Nathan, what’s this about? If it’s only about the phone call – I apologize. I got distracted and forgot to call back.  </em> <em> It was a dumb mistake </em> <em> ” </em> </p><p><em> He keeps studying you and even though he gives you another nod – his next words make you freeze. </em> </p><p><em> “I thought I saw you </em><em>leaving  </em>an abortion clinic." </p><p><em> Your heart drops to your stomach. The one single thing you’d kept from him – the only one lie that persevered was the fact you were unable to have children. You never thought you’d want them when you still had your father’s genes. </em> </p><p><em> “I thought you couldn’t have kids. I thought -” he runs a hand over his face, “You told me that you couldn’t have kids, and you knew that that’s all I wanted-” </em> </p><p><em> “Are you stalking me?” </em> <em>  you interrupt.  </em> </p><p><em> “You said you couldn’t have kids.” He repeats again, his voice now louder. </em> </p><p><em> You’d moved past this. You had when you’d had that discussion when you got engaged. He wanted a house full of kids and you didn’t - even though you lied – and he seemed to accept it, with no hesitation. </em> </p><p><em> “If you want a divorce, just say so” you breathe out resigned. “I don’t want kids. I’m sorry I lied but you said it was not a problem.” </em> </p><p><em> “And you couldn’t tell me that?” His voice is threatening. </em> <em>  Your heart beats louder as a cold  </em> <em> shiver </em> <em>  runs along your spine. He was in meetings all day – how could he know where you were? Did he keep an eye on you? </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> <em> How do you know </em> <em>  where I was?” </em> </p><p><em> The blue vase on his desk comes crashing down against the wall at your left. You stop breathing completely.  </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> <em> Can you have children </em> <em> ? Did you lie to me?” </em> </p><p><em> You can barely speak, or even hear anything – not when he’d thrown aggressively a vase your way with the pure  </em> <em> intention of threatening you.  </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> <em> Darling </em> <em> ” his voice lowers, and even through the affectionate name </em> <em> , you’re still petrified. </em> <em>  “Why did you lie to me?” </em> </p><p><em> His hands move slow and you note the  </em> <em> jumble of pens and pencils  </em> <em> on his right and the empty glass of whiskey on the left –  </em> <em> and sensing he will throw them too you speak, terrified and frozen in place. </em> </p><p><em> “My father” you let out, eyes fixed on his hands, wanting to predict what he will do next. “ </em> <em> I don’t want to birth a child who has his genes. I don’t want-“ </em> </p><p>You don’t want Nathan’s children either. </p><p><em> It had a been a gut instinct too – realizing something was wrong  </em> <em> when you were late. And you’d been happy before yesterday, floating on clouds  </em> <em> and feeling lightweight with the love and affection Nathan constantly showered you with </em> <em> . But  </em> now <em>  – </em> </p><p><em> Now, more than anything you don’t want  </em> his <em>child.  </em> </p><p><em> His demeanor changes entirely. He gets off the desk and reaches for you immediately, face and eyes soft. You don’t flinch – you  </em> <em> don’t allow yourself to  </em> <em> when he’s so close to you. </em> </p><p><em> “Oh, darling. I’m sorry” his words  </em> <em> and actions  </em> <em> seem mechanical  </em> <em> as </em> <em>  he wraps you in his arms </em> <em> . You </em> <em>  feel like you’re out of your body, seeing yourself from the outside. “Why didn’t you tell me?” </em> </p><p><em> He kisses the top of your head and you swallow thick. </em> </p><p><em> “Because I didn’t want to worry you.” You say  </em> <em> at once. Even your words seem rehearsed and robotic. “I want to give you all the happiness in the world but I can’t  </em> <em> give birth to a child who bears a serial killer’s genes.” </em> </p><p><em> You feel his laughter against your own chest. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> <em> It’s okay. I understand you. We don’t need kids </em> <em> , right?” </em> <em>  He lets you go so he can look at you and you nod, feigning a smile. </em> </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p>The space around you is dark, and everything echoes – from your movement of your feet shuffling together, to the bones of your fingers cracking as you stretch them wide, even when you open your mouth, as you try to speak with no avail.  </p><p>After the drive and announcing her identity to you, the bag (you know now that it was a bag) came back over your head. It was funny considering she’d probably made the resolution to simply murder you – so why keep you from seeing the location? As if you’d open your eyes and just instantly walk out on your own two feet. </p><p>“Since when have you been collaborating with the FBI?” </p><p>You look up, meeting her eyes at once. </p><p>You’re on a stone floor, bottles of wines stacked in angled wooden shelves continuing in an expansive room that looks more like a tunneled cave with its arched ceiling and hanging lights. You’re in a wine cellar – and knowing the Andersons own multiple properties across Washington you could be wherever. </p><p>It’s not like they ever showed you every vacation house they have. </p><p>Lucille sits before you on a wide leather couch, leaning back with her chin held high. Her posture is relaxed, lips perched upwards in amusement as if she’s sitting down watching a soccer match and not you. </p><p>Your hands are tied together behind your back, and the room is insulated to preserve the humidity required for wine storage, temperatures significantly low in comparison to the weather outside – you're freezing. You don’t answer, but take the moment to look around. She doesn’t have her usual bodyguards around so she must really think she can torture and kill you with her own hands. </p><p>“I asked you a question.” she repeats. “Since when?” </p><p>You shift, so you’re sitting down with your legs in front of you.  </p><p>“Since I married Nathan” you lie. </p><p>She shakes her head. “I want the truth, child.” </p><p>You scoff, glancing around discretely – you cannot see a door or a clear way to the exit, and your legs still work. If she’s alone, and there’s nobody outside you could potentially make a run for it. </p><p>“I’m not a child” you retort. </p><p>“You are” she smiles, “first, you don’t follow my suggestions to stay away from my son, then you marry him. Second, you kill him. Only children do not obey. You’re incredibly naive to think you’d get away with it too” </p><p>You don’t make an effort to negate it this time.  </p><p>“And now, you’ve brought the FBI and the entire Department of Justice at our doorstep.” </p><p>Department of Justice? What is she talking about? </p><p>Lucille leans forward, resting her elbows over her knees, looking down at you from her height.  </p><p>“You couldn’t have just stayed in Virginia, could you?” </p><p>“Would you have left me alone if I had?” you ask, knowing the question is rhetorical. She would have still found a way to get you back.  </p><p>“Since when?” she asks again, wiping the smile off her face. Her eyes are cold. “Answer me” </p><p>There’s something in her hands that catches the lights overhead, directing the glare directly to your eyes, shining bright. </p><p><em> It’s a knife.  </em> </p><p>A gleaming steel knife, bright as polished silver. </p><p>Much like the one Nathan had brandished that night in the kitchen. </p><p>The sight of it makes you retreat, your legs and feet scrambling over the pavement, pushing you away from her at once, until your back hits something solid – a shelf with wine bottles. They wobble and clink together and you hold your breath until they’re steady again. </p><p>“Don’t make me ask a third time” she says.  </p><p>You forget all about the exit and trying to find a way out, because if her movements are the same as Nathan’s had been... you don’t think you will make it out of here today. You gulp, eyes fixed on the blade. </p><p>“Since the murders of the men started” </p><p>She nods once. “Did you tell them about Nathan? Do they know?” </p><p>You tilt your head to the side. Even scared for what she might do, you’re still not going to admit that Nathan had told you<em> himself</em>.  </p><p>“Tell them about what?” </p><p>She leans back on her chair, and lets out a dull laugh. “You know, Nathan fought so <em>goddamn</em> hard for you.” </p><p>You don’t pay attention to her words, not really. Not when she looks down at the blade in her hands, pressing a finger and forefinger between the blade as if testing its sharpness. </p><p>“I wanted to get rid of you – when he first said about meeting someone<em> special</em>, someone so cut off from the world...” she stops, looks up, “I thought he was for sure telling me about another future <em>endeavor</em>.” </p><p>“Endeavour” you repeat meekly. </p><p>“Yes. See, you were easy: not a single person in the world, no family, no friends. It was like you’d dropped out of the sky and into our midst – ready to be shipped off to wherever we pleased.” </p><p>You look down at your left hand, at your ring finger where you’d once bared Nathan’s dedication to you. And he’d considered – <em>his mother </em>had considered selling you off somewhere?  </p><p>“He insisted you were special – <em>like him</em>.” </p><p>What would he have done if you hadn’t been – would you have ended up in Watson’s basement too? Or somewhere else?  </p><p>“What do you mean?” you hear yourself ask. </p><p>Nathan had repeated it so many times: that you’re the same, that he found himself through you. Did he think you had the same leanings as he had?  </p><p>She glances your way, the side of her lips tilted up, “He thought he finally found someone to commit too. Like his father and I had been.” </p><p>You suck in a breath.<em> Even</em> his parents were like him? You study her posture, her outfit too – the pantsuit and a white dress shirt and sneakers – and you’d once thought she was insane. What would the BAU profilers see when studying her – a serial killer, a serial rapist, a psychopath, or someone who tortured people?  </p><p>But what about her other children? Nathan had siblings – younger than him. It’s a wild idea but maybe they’d adopted them or worse. What if they’re the same way too? </p><p>“I let it slide in the end.” she continues, ignoring your question. “After finding out about your father, I thought my dear son was getting everything he desired in life. He was a very tough kid to raise, very difficult to get used to his... preferences.” </p><p>So, just Nathan then was special - as per her words.</p><p>Her gaze turns into an icy glare. “Then you<em> killed</em> him. <em>Lied</em> to my face about it – because you <em>wanted</em> his fortune?” </p><p>Your voice shakes. “I didn’t want anything from him. I cared about him. I-I...” you can’t say it not when you don’t think it’s even true anymore.  </p><p>You can’t even remember what loving Nathan had felt like. Only the bad things have remained. </p><p>Lucille senses your train of thought and she asks: </p><p>“Did you <em>love</em> killing him too?” </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p><em> It had been a couple of days after the incident in his office, and he was luckily out, travelling for business. It was a relief because you don’t think you </em><em>could </em><em>feign laying on the same bed as him again, or relax enough so you can sleep</em><em>.</em><em> It's not the first time in your life a man threatens you or wants to harm you. But you still feel out of your depth because you argued with his mother, his family, with him too – to be with him like this.  </em> </p><p>How fucking stupid would it be if you’d stop wanting him now, <em>after all that? </em> </p><p><em> But no – you shake your head. You still love him. </em>He’s still Nathan<em>. </em> </p><p><em> The door opens wide and you sense it’s him before he comes into view. </em> </p><p><em> Maria is beside him, taking his jacket and the backpack off his hands, while you stand dumbly </em><em>on </em><em>the stairs. And for a brief moment you forget everything about your last fight. He looks you up and down, his eyes crinkling at the sides, and he grins – in that way only he knows how. </em> </p><p><em> He’s back to being Nathan, the same man you’d laughed with and kissed at that concert; the same one who lets you run into his arms every single time;  </em> <em> and  </em> <em> who could hold anyone’s attention with his boyish charm.  </em> </p><p><em> Your feet move on their own, descending the steps two by two and you throw yourself at him and he catches you. </em> </p><p><em> Letting out a big huff at the impact, wrapping his arms around you and holding you up until your feet are off the floor </em> <em>  – he twirls </em> <em>  you around, your head nuzzled  </em> <em> on </em> <em>  his shoulder. </em> </p><p><em> He </em> <em>  still  </em> <em> smells like Nathan. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> <em> Darling"</em><em> he breathes out, his rich gravelly voice </em><em>fills</em><em> your ears, “I missed you too.” </em> </p><p><em> He lets you down gently, his arms still around your back and waist. And you </em><em>want</em><em> him to still be the old Nathan – no fights, no sign of aggression or that he’s like the other men from the strip club, or that he’s like your </em><em>father</em><em>, who’d yell and beat your mother when you were a toddler. </em> </p><p><em> “Maria” he orders without once looking at her. He keeps his gaze set on you, like there’s nobody and nothing in the world more important to him. “I want the dinner with my wife tonight to be romantic. Please, set it up.” </em> </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch has his first moment of peace on the phone with his son, Jack. He tells him about the playdate with his friend Tom, and how Frank’s birthday today in kindergarten had brought all the kids small cookies and chocolate bars. Jack speaks in rushed, mumbling words, sometimes incoherent as a three-years-older does. But Jack’s voice is enough to make Hotch feel whole again. He's light again as Jack talks his ear off about his day spent drawing rainbows and houses. (<em>Houses - plural</em>, Hotch thinks, because Jack would pass from Haley’s new place, to Jessica’s, and then to Hotch’s. And he probably still remembers the big house they had together before the divorce.) </p><p>“That’s great, buddy. I love you very much.” </p><p>“I love you too, dad” Jack squeaks, and then the phone is dropped somewhere, because Hotch can hear nothing for a beat.  </p><p>There’s ruffling and movement, and then Haley’s voice. </p><p>“He always throws the phone on the couch when he’s done. He gets easily distracted and bored.” She scoffs, and Hotch can tell she’s drained.  </p><p>He’s known her since middle school and can read every word and silence, and can recognize every noise parting her lips. He can’t help it.  </p><p>It tugs at something deep inside him. This knowledge now, spanning years – and he’s sure even lifetimes – is needless now. Where does he put it? Who does it hand it to? Is he supposed to forget everything and pretend he doesn’t know her like the back of his hand? </p><p>“Thanks for letting me talk to him” he says, like he always does. Because he screwed this up with her but he’s not going to let her think he’s giving up on Jack too. </p><p>“Of course,” she answers like always.  </p><p>This time though, she doesn’t hang up right away so he waits, knowing even when she hesitates before asking something she’s shy about (shy or preparing herself emotionally to). </p><p>“Hey” she starts, voice soft. He holds a breath.  </p><p>“Jack has asked about this meal you cooked for him last time.” </p><p>Hotch doesn’t know what he was expecting: for her to admit that the divorce had been a mistake? That she misses him? Or that she wants to give him another chance – the <em>actual,</em> last chance? </p><p>He doesn’t know – but he’s deeply disappointed. </p><p>“Sure” he says, voice back to the one he uses at work, stern and controlled. </p><p>“Banana waffles?” she says tentatively, “You made him homemade waffles for breakfast?” </p><p>His heart skips a beat. “Banana oatmeal waffles?”  </p><p>“Yeah” she confirms. “If you could just text me the recipe, I’ll make it for him.” </p><p>“I will” he says, but his voice is distant.  </p><p>“Thanks. That’s all. Bye” No longer with an excuse, she hangs up right away. Hotch’s left looking at the phone on his hands but Haley is no longer in his mind. </p><p><em> Banana oatmeal waffles. </em> </p><p>Your one suggestion for him, offered so casually the morning after in your condo in New York. He’d expected you to hate the talk over his son first thing in the morning. He was rusty in seeing and dating someone new – let alone sleeping with someone for the first time. He didn’t remember what the protocol was. Should he steer away from talking about kids, about his boring life? But you’d been so gracious, so gentle, and willing to offer him anything your beautiful mind could conjure up – unbothered that he was older, and that he’d talked about his kid over the breakfast table. </p><p>And then on a Saturday, Hotch had felt desperate in getting Jack in good graces, and had felt guilty for the case stretching so long that he couldn’t see him. He didn’t want to spoil him with sugar so the alternative just popped up in his head. The<em> goddamn</em> waffles had been a success. </p><p>They still were memorable, apparently. </p><p>Hotch looks at the phone still in his hand and this time he doesn’t hesitate. He dials your number, wanting to just hear your voice, second to Jack’s in calming him down. </p><p>The line is dead, never ringing once. He tries again, but it’s the same. He picks up a landline, forming the number out of memory and dials again. The same thing happens.  </p><p>He calls Dave, not stopping to think if he’s even being desperate. His friend picks up at the second dial. </p><p>“Rossi” he answers automatically. </p><p>“Dave,” he starts, then he chooses to not take the long route. He <em>does</em> know everything now. He just has to bear Dave’s merciless teasing, later on. “Is <em>she</em> there?” </p><p>“Aaron” the other man says, voice tinted in amusement, “she’s outside, I think. Went for a smoke an hour ago so she’s fine,<em> you know</em>.” </p><p>“Right” Hotch lets out, but there’s still a nagging feeling inside him. “I need to, uh,” he looks at Garcia through the glass walls typing away over Nathan’s desk computer. “ask her about a few documents we found in Nathan’s computer.” </p><p>“Riiiight” Dave laughs. “<em>documents</em>.” </p><p>Hotch shakes his head. He’s going to make him beg, isn’t he? He doesn’t have the patience for it, luckily. </p><p>“Please” he lets out weakly, “would you just put her on the phone” </p><p>Dave lets out a chuckle into the speaker and Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. </p><p>He hears doors opening and closing, then Dave’s footsteps and even chatter as he moves around the police department. </p><p>“She’s not here” Dave muses, “she must be in the ladies’ room or maybe still outside.” </p><p>“Would you please check?” </p><p>Dave stops. “Which one?” </p><p>Hotch rolls his eyes. “Outside, of course.” </p><p>More shuffling and movement. </p><p>“She must be in the ladies’ room” Dave says, letting out a breath. “How about this – I give her my phone and you call her there later? Or I tell her to call <em>you </em>once she’s out?” </p><p>Hotch feels like a child, but he accepts either way.  </p><p>“Sure. Thanks, Dave.” He’s about to hang up but Dave stops him. </p><p>“Aaron - we found something in the house.” </p><p>His initial worry is gone as he refocuses on the case. </p><p>“Baker, Watson, Black, Maltese and all the others – we have proof of what they had been doing at last. Nathan had files on all of them.” </p><p>Hotch looks between Garcia, Reid and Prentiss and the phone. He feels torn because he wants to stay to satiate his own curiosity to know if the Andersons had all been in on it, but he also wants to see first-hand what the other men had done and how had Nathan helped them. </p><p>“Maltese was a pedophile.”  Dave says. “The politician who’s in prison for tax fraud has a very extensive media library. Nathan was blackmailing him so Maltese could help him with leniency in his business. Probably with moving people across border as well – if he’s in the human trafficking business too. Baker was a serial arsonist killer. And Black, as<em> she</em>’d once assumed, was a serial rapist. The others are not looking good either.” </p><p>“What about the lawyer?” Hotch asks. </p><p>“Yes. Cranes – he’s the one getting their records expunged.” </p><p>All the men had a role in the little club. </p><p>“If Maria Gratta hadn’t gotten to them all...” </p><p>Dave doesn’t have to finish the sentence because they all know it to be true. These men would have continued life like usual, and never would have gotten caught by the police either. </p><p>But Hotch can’t linger on it longer as he sees suits entering the office floor, and he recognizes the people too: Homeland Security and Department of Justice. </p><p>“I’ll talk to you later” Hotch says. </p><p>“You mean <em>to her</em>.” Dave says, not hiding the smile in his voice.  </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p><em> You wake up sometime at night – 3am, you read on the clock at your bedside table – and your mouth is dry. You push the blanket and covers off of you, and you can’t find the slippers so you bypass them completely. It’s just a simple run to the kitchen for water – and for a second you think you should probably tell Nathan to install a fridge in this floor as well. Wobbling down the stairs, still drowsed in sleep, you think you imagine the cries, and the breathing. You’d dreamt about your mother – now faceless and a morphed body that you can hardly remember when your father takes up all your memories with her – so you’re still distraught.  </em> </p><p><em> You don’t bother with turning the lights on, even as you enter the kitchen. Your mind is playing tricks on you because you  </em> <em> see </em> <em>  two  </em> <em> silhouettes </em> <em>  in the dark – one kneeling and one on the ground. You draw open the fridge door but you halt - </em> </p><p><em> Maria’s eyes look pointedly at yours – quiet tears stream down her face and she’s biting her  </em> <em> lip </em> <em> , her nose flaring as she tries to breathe in and out deeply.  </em> </p><p><em> That’s when you see </em>him<em>. </em> </p><p><em> Nathan, in his pajama bottoms and a dark t-shirt, and his right hand goes up again. He strikes again, the dull blow of the knife in his hand landing on her torso – hidden from the angle you’re in. </em> </p><p><em> Nathan does that same movement on repeat, never once hearing you stand behind him, and for a split second you think you’ve fallen through a wormhole – a bad nightmare which has catapulted you into a different reality.  </em> </p><p><em> Instincts kick in – there's no flight response anymore. But you can recognize danger and a threat, as  </em> <em> goosebumps </em> <em>  rise all over the skin of your arms. Blood rushes down to your hands, as adrenaline pumps through you.  </em> </p><p><em> Your hand reaches for the knife over the table, familiar in your hold </em> <em>  – </em> <em>  and this time he doesn’t get to hit her again. </em> </p><p><em> You strike him once – the blade of the knife pierces his right bicep and you watch hypnotized the blood gush out. He stumbles to the floor, beside Maria, shocked and surprised. </em> </p><p><em> With his body off hers, you see the fresh cuts on her torso, zigzagged superficial lines that glare at you – moonlight pouring from the windows making them silvery.  </em> </p><p>He was torturing her? He was torturing Maria? </p><p><em> Nathan looks at you wide-eyed, the blade rolling from his hands and into the grey calcite marble tiles of the kitchen.  </em> </p><p><em> “What are you doing?” </em> </p><p><em> But you don’t stop there. You shift the knife in your hand – fingers wrapped tight around the handle, and thumb pressing at the end. He looks terrified, and it’s such a strange occurrence to see your own emotions from nights ago mirrored in his face.  </em> </p><p><em> That fuels you more. </em> </p><p><em> He’d threatened you. He’d stalked you.  </em> <em> He was just like the rest of them. </em> </p><p>He was torturing Maria. </p><p><em> He pushes himself away from you, and he’s stronger, despite the wound on his arm, but you don’t see </em>  him <em>  anymore.  </em> </p><p><em> It’s your father’s face – leering at you as he’s drunk and yelling at your mother. As you imagine him standing over the body of a young woman, looking like you.  </em> </p><p><em> You strike again with no hesitation. The knife cuts through his thigh, and the sound of the flesh  </em> <em> against the blade,  </em> <em> and the warm blood pouring out is forever etched in your mind. </em> </p><p><em> Did those young girls suffer at his hands solely because he wanted to reprimand  </em> you  <em> instead?  </em> </p><p><em> Another dull blow.  </em> </p><p><em> Nathan cowers, angling his body away from yours, and only his right leg gets the blunt of your attacks. </em> </p><p><em> Or did they suffer because your own father never saw you as his daughter?  </em> </p><p><em> Why did they all look like you, why did they all look like you, why did they all - </em> </p><p> </p><p><em> Your hand moves on its own – once, twice and anothe</em><em>r </em> <em> , in time with the question in your mind. </em> </p><p>Why did they all look like you? </p><p><em> “...it’s okay” a hand grips your wrist, and you halt. She takes the blade from your hands. </em> </p><p><em> Maria looks at you, and she keeps her eyes off Nathan, who has stopped twitching. There’s relief in her teary eyes – a silent immediate agreement occurring only through eye contact. </em> </p><p><em> You stand up, grip her arms and pull her with force off the ground.  </em> </p><p><em> She still shakes, tears roll down her face like a never-ending stream. Your eyes are glued to the cuts on her torso. The rage inside you hasn’t died down but you feel steady. </em> </p><p><em> You ask her if she’s okay, despite it all. She says she is, then she apologizes, and you both try not to look at the body on the ground, or the blood soaking the floor – hers and his. </em> </p><p><em> Maria cannot tear her eyes off you – so  </em> <em> you u</em><em>rge her to get the child, and leave. You help her do so in a flurry and it’s like your mind </em><em>blacks out</em><em>. </em> </p><p><em> First, you’re still in the kitchen, convincing her it’s not her fault. Second, you’re in her room, picking up her niece and tucking her into Maria’s arms. Third, you’re shoving money in her bag, and ordering her to never show up anymore – not when Nathan’s corpse lies still in your kitchen </em> <em>  floor. </em> </p><p><em> --- </em> </p><p> </p><p>Lucille clears her throat, taking you out of your trance. She’s stopped twisting the weapon in her hands but you still feel dread.  </p><p><em> Were they all the same, like Nathan? </em> </p><p>“You know what surprised me about you?” she asks all of the sudden. </p><p>You swallow thick, “What?” </p><p>“The embezzlement charges. I thought for sure you were going to fight them, negate them and take me to court.” </p><p>Take a billion-dollar family to court? That had never crossed your mind, even though you were innocent. </p><p>“I was rather disappointed when you accepted the charges and headed to prison.” </p><p>How was she disappointed when she’d torn apart every inch of your life – before and even after you married her son? And she thought you had it in you to fight her, <em>still</em>? </p><p>“But I did enjoy seeing you jailed.” </p><p>You nod – <em>of course, she did</em>. </p><p>“I admit” she muses, “it got difficult trying to pinpoint you. Especially when you moved to Virginia.” </p><p>Had she been stalking you there too? </p><p>“And to think I even had to bring out outside help” </p><p>“Outside help?” you voice aloud. “what do you mean?” </p><p>“Davis Finch”  </p><p>Your heart is in your throat. Your father – who’s now an escaped convict. </p><p><em> Did she  </em> –<em>? </em> </p><p>“Had to pull a lot of strings to get him outside.” She speaks. “Of course, I assumed it would be more efficient – after all, he only hunted girls who resembled his daughter.” </p><p>You can’t cry.  </p><p>You don’t want to give her the pleasure to see you in that state, even though she’d made you miserable for so long. But to bring out your father – to help him escape just so he could kill you himself... </p><p> </p><p><em> You should have known.  </em> </p><p>A part of you should have expected Lucille Anderson to continue her attempts to bring you down. </p><p>“He disappeared, of course. You can never expect a Finch to be constant.” </p><p>She stands up at once, and you hold your breath as she takes a calculated step forward. </p><p>“I want you to admit that you killed Nathan.” she smiles brilliantly, like her words mean something else entirely, and she moves closer towards you.  </p><p>“I want to hear it from your mouth before I get rid of you” </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p>“This is not your jurisdiction Supervisory Senior Agent Hotchner – nor is it part of your unit’s work.” </p><p>Reid and Prentiss try not to stare too much, but they’re too familiar with the Hotch glare. The way their unit chief doesn’t break his gaze on the man, eyebrows pinched tight and lowered that they almost hide his eyes.  </p><p>“We have direct orders to take over the raid of Anderson Tech and search their servers. We will continue the collaboration intensively with the FBI cybercrimes unit which will arrive soon.” </p><p>They expect him to explode, any minute now – </p><p> </p><p>His phone goes off, ringing loud in the open office, resonating through the glass walls, throwing them all off. </p><p>He doesn’t take a look at it but switches it off at once. Hotch takes a step forward, using his go-to move for intimidation, and lets his height impose on the man’s personal space. </p><p>“We have an open case. You will not interfere until we have – “ </p><p>His phone rings again. He frowns at it, as if he’s going to direct his anger to it instead. He turns it off but the phone rings again a second later. This time, he glances at them, once he sees it’s Dave.  </p><p>“Reid. Call – “ </p><p>The other agent straightens up, even more so than before. But before he can finish the sentence Reid’s phone rings.  </p><p>He answers at once: </p><p>“Yes, Rossi.” </p><p>He takes the phone outside and that’s when Hotch finally confronts the man – </p><p>“We are investigating a criminal’s club which was initiated by Nathan Anderson. Your departments are welcome to continue once we have the evidence – not only that he was indeed the creator, but also that there are no bodies dispersed as a consequence to his murderous tendencies. I will not have you impede our investigation – “ </p><p>Hotch doesn’t see Reid back in the office. He doesn’t catch him whisper something to Prentiss, and how they both move to Garcia.  </p><p>There’s loud typing on the keyboard – urgent and desperate.  </p><p>The man interrupts him. </p><p>“SSA Hotchner, I understand your worries. But we are talking here about a system that was launched last night. If it is indeed part of the human trafficking ring that Homeland Security has been on for over 10 years now – we cannot just sit around and wait. Our work takes priority now.” </p><p><em> Sit around and wait – </em> this man was really telling Hotch to put their investigation on hold? </p><p>“Hotch “, Reid’s voice is weak, amongst the two men’s raucous arguments. </p><p>“If your unit wants to help us work fast than they are welcome to do so.” The other man bellows. “We would even appreciate the help from your technical analyst – “ he looks pointedly at Garcia and Hotch follows his gaze. </p><p>The three of them – Reid and Prentiss on each side of her, and Garcia look caught like deer in headlights. </p><p>“- who has cracked the gentlemen’s club, Brook’s.” </p><p>Taking advantage of the fact Hotch is looking at them, Reid speaks again. </p><p>“Hotch“ </p><p>He raises a hand in turn, motioning at him to not say another word, misunderstanding his attempt. </p><p>Prentiss jumps in, “Hotch, this isn’t about-“ </p><p>“You think you can come in the middle of my raid and disrupt it?” </p><p>“Sir!” Garcia jumps as well.  </p><p>He throws a look at them, bewildered – his anger following too. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>Prentiss is the one to talk, “Hotch – Miss Anderson has been missing for 4 hours.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p><em> Why would he care about Lucille Anderson right now? </em> </p><p>Then his mind registers that Anderson remains one of your surnames – not without a divorce, and having found Nathan’s corpse to formalize his death. But he has not time left to scour for reasons you would have fled, because he’s interrupted once more. </p><p>“Oh God...” Garcia gasps, looking at something on the screen that makes Reid and Prentiss’ faces fall. Caught by a security camera installed years ago in a corner between the Seattle PD building and a coffee shop - which Garcia had been able to ping as the last location of your phone before it went dead - they see you get snatched and hauled into a large black vehicle.</p><p>“Scratch that ”Prentiss says, “-she’s been kidnapped.” </p><p>That’s how Hotch’s mind blanks completely. </p><p>--</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks as always for reading!!💕💕💕<br/>as alwaysss lemme know what you think!!</p><p>i wanted this chapter to be just 1 (one) but as always i start writing sth intending it to be short and it ends up 10000 words so i had to cut this lmao! but<br/>i promise you protective hotch next time (which is also written so u wont have to wait long - i promise!!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Even if it's a Lie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The BAU finally gets a lead - but what happens once Hotch finds you?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>not me posting 3 times a week even though im overflowing with uni work ashdakdds<br/>flashbacks in italics.<br/>and if u see grammar errors - no u didn't. lol</p><p>ALSO this is a long one! AND ANGSTY</p><p>(also don't hate me lmao)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Looking at the screen again, at the image of you – blurry and low resolution as you’re being pushed around and into the car – Hotch sees red. </p><p>It’s like his entire skin burns with anger – boiling over and over, getting too close to the brim to where he cannot hold on any longer. </p><p>But he reels it in. He has too. </p><p>“She's desperate” Morgan says matter-of-factly. “Kidnapping someone out like this, in the open? Not too far from Seattle PD?” </p><p>“The Andersons are reckless now.” Dave chimes in, hands shoved in his pockets. “They’ve probably had their eyes set on her since the news of the house being raided spread out. Just circling around the neighborhood, until she’d be alone.” </p><p>“Why attack<em> her </em>for something she did not do? It’s not like she came forward to the police – she didn’t know about anything. She didn’t even accuse Nathan.” Prentiss asks. </p><p>Hotch has gotten good at lying too, as well as keeping stuff from them. He knows Lucille is out for revenge over her son’s murder, the will, and now this – the collaboration with FBI. </p><p>He halts. Turns to Reid and Prentiss. </p><p>“Was Lucille Anderson in the building when the raid happened?” </p><p>“Yes” Prentiss answers. “We showed the warrant to her. She’s still the resident CEO.” </p><p>Most probably Lucille had seen Hotch enter the building too. It’s revenge for having brought an FBI agent at her gatherings, at her office and to Clover.  </p><p>“She saw you were FBI. She must have figured out quickly that she’s been collaborating with us. That and the fact she never approved the relationship with the son.” Dave says looking at Hotch.  </p><p>“Coupled with her being the sole inheritor of Anderson Tech – that must have sent her spiraling.” </p><p>And she’s convinced you killed Nathan.  </p><p>But Hotch still hopes he’s not the reason your life is in danger. </p><p>“We know who the kidnapper is” Hotch speaks, voice stern but never rising in volume – still managing to convey the gravity of the situation. </p><p>“And it occurred in the open – no regards for surveillance cameras or anything else.” </p><p>They all know what that means. Rarely do kidnappers with no demands release their victims. </p><p>“I have a few registered addresses of Lucille – I can try to triangulate her location too.” Garcia chimes in, “I just am not sure how long it will take me” </p><p>Hotch pins her with a steady gaze. “We need to find where Lucille Anderson is, and we need to do it now. This-“ </p><p>He looks at the others, and they’re ready, vests and guns holstered, ready to jolt out as soon as Garcia gives the signal. </p><p>“-is our priority right now.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>--- </p><p><em> The baby has stopped crying and although Maria has too – her eyes are red and puffy, and it’s not safe for her to drive out like this – it still feels like someone’s tugging a part of your soul. You register it with pain in your heart, and even though she’d said it wasn’t the first time Nathan has done this – you’re still calm. </em> </p><p><em> Your steps are measured, slow and quiet as you head back into your house. You lock the front door, and make a beeline for the kitchen. You switch on the lights – the pool of blood in the grey marble is bigger than it first was in the dark. You pick up the knife you’d left over the kitchen island, twisting it around in your right hand until you feel comfortable with it, until you’re used to its weight. You follow the trail of blood outside, leading down the hall. It’s a continuous strip that you note leads to his office.   </em>  </p><p>In your house –<em> you think. He’s been doing this shit for god-knows how long, in your house.  </em>  </p><p>Fuck<em>  the cameras and everything else – because you’d watched it all and there was no proof of it, he didn’t go down the corridor and you didn’t see him enter her room at night. So, how the fuck did the cameras not catch him? </em> </p><p><em> You make a pit stop in the living room, pausing in front of your wedding portrait. The same one where you’re both looking at each other happily after finally tying the knot. You put the blade of the knife between your teeth, holding it momentarily, as you take the painting off the wall with both hands, placing it gently against the chimney. A safe is uncovered. </em> </p><p><em> Inserting the passcode, you unlock it and take out a small handgun and a magazine, holstering them into the waistband of your pants. You switch on the light of his office once you’re inside –   </em>  </p><p><em> “In my house?” you hear yourself ask aloud – voice foreign to your own ears.   </em>  </p><p><em> You walk the distance, stopping in front of his desk. Nathan’s clutching his right arm to his chest, blood seeping into his clothes – while he’s limping with his right leg, dragging it behind him with great effort, until he plops down over the office chair - a whine escaping his throat. </em> </p><p><em> “You did this in my fucking house?”  </em>  </p><p><em> He looks at you with shock in his eyes, as he struggles to control his breathing. You raise your revolver – your hold on it steady and sure, eyes unblinking.  </em>  </p><p><em> “I want the truth, Nathan.”  </em>  </p><p><em> You cock the gun, aiming it between his eyebrows.  </em>  </p><p><em> “What did Maria mean when she said you’ve been doing this  </em> for years?"   </p><p><em> Instead of answering you, he only leans back on the seat, and you think again – about how you’d been hoping the blood loss from the stabbing wounds would have left him unconscious. You’d prepared yourself for cleaning the blood and getting rid of the corpse.  </em> </p><p><em> Now though – as you’d watched Maria leave the driveway few minutes ago, the only person you could consider family, and who had no hidden motives – you realize you’re alone, and you have to get rid of him  </em> yourself<em>.  </em> </p><p><em> Your mind is set. It only depends on what he tells you now. </em> </p><p><em> He’s rendered you alone in the world. Therese is across the state and you’d burned that bridge with her when you’d chosen him instead. He’s left you feeling you desolate and bereft – after he took the only family you’d had.  </em> </p><p><em> “What did you do to my cameras?” you hear yourself ask, remembering that he’s the one with the genius in anything relating to technology. </em> </p><p><em>  Had he known you’d been stalking him too, only inside the house – just like he stalked you outside? </em> </p><p><em> What a perfect fucking couple you two make. </em> </p><p><em> “How did I not catch you? How did you continue torturing her inside my house?” </em> </p><p><em> His lips pull upwards in a lazy smirk, as if he’s enjoying pulling you apart. </em> </p><p><em> “You thought...” he breathes ragged from his nose, “thought you could do anything without me knowing?” </em> </p><p><em> You’re the one armed to the teeth but yet he’s still more threatening. His words making you shiver with dread. </em> </p><p><em> “You knew about them”  </em> </p><p><em> He scoffs, “Darling, there isn’t a single thing you do that I didn’t know about. Your little trips to New York – wanting to reconnect with your slutty, whorish friends-” </em> </p><p><em> You shake your head – he knew about your business trips, but you’d never told him about the half-trips stopping at the strip club you and Therese had worked, unable to go in, fearing what she’d say. </em> </p><p><em> “Shut up” </em> </p><p><em> “-your jogs around the park, taking you a bit further down the unsafe neighborhoods, wanting to test your limit. A death wish, too, maybe? Or maybe you were seeking danger?” </em> </p><p><em> He leans forward over the desk, his hand staying fixed over his bicep, trying to stop the bleeding. </em> </p><p><em> “Even about how much you pitied Maria, after her sister died.” </em> </p><p><em> “It wasn’t pity” you reply right away. “She was family. She</em> is<em>." </em> </p><p><em> He shakes his head, leaning back, “I once got jealous too, watching you let in those two men inside our house.” </em> </p><p><em> You cock an eyebrow. “What the hell are you talking about?” </em> </p><p><em> “That police officer.” He spits out, “seeing you get close, practically on his face. I wanted to kill that man” </em> </p><p><em> You’re dumbfounded, not comprehending what he’s talking about. You hadn’t let anyone inside your house – he was the one who brought his friends or family over. Apart from a few luncheons that you’d thrown out of necessity, but they’d all been women.  </em> </p><p><em> The only time you’d opened your door was - </em> </p><p>Oh<em>. A few months ago, when Agent Gideon and  </em> <em> Hotchner </em> <em>  came to question Maria about her sister, and you’d snapped at the latter. He’d seen that?  </em> </p><p><em> You’re getting side-tracked, you realize. He’s trying to get the upper hand and intimidate you. </em> </p><p><em> You ask again. “What did Maria mean when she said you’ve been doing this  </em> for years?"   </p><p><em> You have a gun pointed at his head and he laughs – loud and hollow, making your stomach twist in violent knots.   </em>  </p><p><em> “Darling, you’re not going to shoot me – Stop with the play-acting”  </em>  </p><p><em> It’s a failed attempt to make your aim unsteady.   </em>  </p><p><em> “Why do you think so?” you ask, “you did say we are the same. Why don’t we test that?”  </em>  </p><p><em> The grin on his face is wiped off, as you kick away at his desk, the many Knick knacks over it falling to the ground, breaking in a billion pieces. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> <em> Why don’t you test me, Nathan?” </em> </p><p><em> So he knows about what you’re doing outside of this house – he still doesn’t know what you’d done in the past. Or what you’re capable of doing.  </em> </p><p><em> You circle the desk, coming to stand beside him and his eyes follow your movement. A loud cry escapes his mouth once you put pressure </em>  <em> over his thigh – the one bloodied </em> <em>  that you’d mindlessly struck. </em> </p><p><em> “Answer my fucking question – did you know her before she worked for us?” </em> </p><p><em> --- </em> </p><p> </p><p>Hotch’s patience is running thin. He’d told Garcia to drop everything even though he’s reluctant to give up the position at Anderson Tech. But Garcia is already spread thin as is without then throwing in the midst an active kidnapping. So, they end up delving into Lucille Anderson and their estate.  </p><p>“The Anderson were quite the Brady Bunch” Garcia lets out as she types.  </p><p>Hotch stops pacing, looks up. </p><p>“If they had been into, you know, murder and trafficking human beings.” </p><p>They all stare at one another. The suits from Homeland Security had relayed to them, an hour ago, about the operation they’d been on for 10 years now – of movement from North America, in Canada, using Seattle as a route further to the South. They’d had their suspicions on a big player moving all the chess pieces – someone with the power, authority and money required to hide in plain sight. </p><p>And luckily – the paintings found in Watson’s basement serve to identify a few women who’d been declared missing in Canada, tracked down by Homeland Security. </p><p>Nathan had likely been that player. </p><p>“They’ve basically been running through numerous therapists” Garcia continues. After accessing their bank records, she’s been running through their expenses.  </p><p>“A lot of them actually” </p><p>“What for?” Prentiss asks.  </p><p>“Hold on. I’m checking.”  </p><p>More typing and Hotch glances at Reid and Rossi pinning down locations of the Anderson residences in Seattle and Washington in a big map on a board. Their wealth has allowed them to have a series of vacation houses along the coast, a few lodges and cabins in the mountains too, near parks and lakes.  </p><p>But they need a place – registered or not – that is close by car to Seattle PD. </p><p>“Dr. Nelson, Dr. Veronica, Dr. Jill, Dr. Shankar, etc., etc. All child therapists.” </p><p>Hotch whips around.  </p><p>“For Nathan?” Rossi beats him to it.  </p><p>JJ is on her left and she nods, reading Garcia’s screen to them.  </p><p>“The whole triad: abusive to animals, wetting the bed, setting fire to small objects” </p><p>“Fulfilling the entire Macdonald triad” Reid speaks up. “Macdonald himself didn’t believe that his research found any definitive link between these behaviors and adult violence. It isn’t always factual but it is likely to happen that the triad leads to future violent behavior.” </p><p>“But he tortured Maria Gratta” Prentiss interjects. “Nathan was violent, narcissistic, a pathological liar, and displaying a superficial charm that most certainly went away when things weren’t going his way.” </p><p>“He must have been a serial killer too” Rossi says. “Maria Gratta wasn’t the first.” </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p><em> Nathan looks into your eyes – and you see that same charm that always seemed to hide his real features disappear, and he’s finally showing his true self. </em> </p><p><em> You’d fallen for, and settled for this façade of his. </em> </p><p><em> “Yes” he answers at last. “I’ve known her for one year now – she's been keeping me  </em> <em> company </em> <em>  for much longer.” </em> </p><p><em> You do not allow yourself to be emotional. If you do, you’ll cry and scream right in front of him, but you want the truth more than anything. </em> </p><p><em> “Did you know her sister?” </em> </p><p><em> “No” he says, and you don’t know if you should trust him for that.  </em> </p><p><em> You don’t want to have any doubts, so you press harder over his wound – and this time he bites his lip, not wanting to scream out in agony.  </em> </p><p><em> “Don’t fucking lie to me” you remind him, “if you do, your death will be longer” </em> </p><p><em> His eyes flash with something – excitement, happiness, and pride? Is that what you see?  </em> </p><p><em> “I didn’t know Sophia, no.” he says, “Maria and I had an agreement” </em> </p><p><em> “Agreement?” </em> </p><p><em> Sweat prickles  </em> <em> down his  </em> <em> strong jawline to his neck, cascading down the collar of his shirt, now drenched through and clinging to his pecks and toned torso like a second skin. He nods once. </em> </p><p><em> “I’d pay her for” he flashes you a toothy smile, “services.” </em> </p><p><em> You freeze – does he mean it wasn’t just physical abuse but also sexual? </em> </p><p><em> “Darling, don’t look at me like that” he breathes out, cocking an eyebrow. “I didn’t need no </em><em>favors </em><em>when I had you” </em> </p><p><em> Your reaction is instinctual – hand rising up and connecting to his jawline, forgetting the gun in your hand as you land a punch to his face. It’s weak and hurts you more than him, but he still tilts sideways from the blunt of it. </em> </p><p><em> He coughs– hazardous, bloody </em><em>– </em> <em>  an</em><em>d </em> <em>  sprays all over the surface of his desk.  </em> </p><p><em> “God” he mutters to himself “I knew I hadn’t pegged you wrong.” </em> </p><p><em> “What the fuck are you saying?” you ask, voice panicked. </em> </p><p><em> He swivels around, and glowers. </em> </p><p><em> “Stop the fucking morality clause, sweetheart!” He shouts, “I can see it in you that you want to end this – that you want to kill me.” </em> </p><p><em> Yes – you want to. But his words, no matter how truthful they ring, they still make you stop and re-evaluate. </em> </p><p><em> “I just hoped we’d do it together.” You hold a breath. </em> </p><p><em> “I had a whole future planned for us! Happy family life – kids or whatever fucking bullshit never suited people like </em>us<em>!” </em> </p><p><em> You take a step back; his voice is so loud it echoes around the space and inside your head. </em> </p><p><em> “I was going to share my business with you. We were going to lead something beyond the normality of redundant day-to-day that the others bear.” </em> </p><p><em> “Anderson Tech?” you ask weakly, and he shakes his head. “What business?” </em> </p><p><em> He scoffs. “I saved Maria from being tossed to the other part of the country – to be toyed with by whomever. I kept her close to her family, gave her a job, a place to live, and a fucking  </em> <em> pay check </em> <em> .” </em> </p><p><em> He talks as if he’s speaking of the benefits of an employee.  </em> </p><p><em> “What’s the fucking business, Nathan?” </em> </p><p><em> And he grins, bloody teeth and all, looking you up-and-down like he always seemed to do before he’d gather you in his arms and kiss you. It brings a sour taste in your mouth, and your grip on the pistol tightens.  </em> </p><p><em> “I provide services for people who have similar needs as mine” he says proud. “I grant them girls, women – whatever they need.” </em> </p><p><em> The grip in your gun shakes, as your mouth hangs open.  </em> </p><p><em> Nathan, your husband, the man you’d run across the globe for – he's worse than your father had ever been. </em> </p><p><em> You’d ran away from your past – just to find yourself married to someone more diabolic and black-hearted.  </em> </p><p><em> “Fuck” a painful gasp escapes you as you see him rise. </em> </p><p><em> You barely register Nathan lurching towards you, not even his hands hiding a heavy-duty cutter. But he lounges himself towards, the weight of his body crushing you to the ground, as the gun drops from your hand and scurries across the floor, slamming against the door. </em> </p><p><em> ---- </em> </p><p> </p><p><em> “... </em> they’re momentarily halting all operations for Clover” Morgan finishes. </p><p>He’s been keeping an eye out for the work the other departments are doing and since he had friends in the FBI cybercrimes unit – getting information was easy. Although with no proof yet of their assumptions of the functions Clover could be doing, they’ve managed to shut it down momentarily, as the investigation on the Anderson family continues. </p><p>“The guy I know, said that Nathan Anderson had been on their radar for a while, and since Garcia found out the software he uses, they’ll be able to link him to several instances across the state.” </p><p>They walk quietly back into the conference room. </p><p>“I’ve narrowed it down to two locations” Reid says as soon as he sees them. “They had a small house in Adelaide, in Federal Way, just outside of Seattle. And the other one is in The Bowl of Edmonds in the north.” </p><p>Garcia nods, “Yes I have both those locations – they haven’t visited neither of them for years. Wait -” </p><p>A notification goes off on her screen and she looks at them both, “Lucille Anderson hasn’t visited it in years. Nathan Anderson has. I inputted here also his bank account and the expenses from Brook’s and he’s spent a considerable amount of time in both.” </p><p>Hope springs in Hotch’s chest, violent and dizzying. If Nathan has spent a lot of time there, even while happily married to you, that must mean something. </p><p>“Which one is further away?” Rossi asks Reid.  </p><p>“By car, they’re both around 38 minutes at most.” </p><p>“Oh, lord... guys, wait-” Garcia gasps, “I think I have something because her phone was last turned on right outside of Saltwater Park – a call from someone inside...” they all come to stand behind her desk, “Anderson Tech.” </p><p>“Who called her, Garcia?” Hotch demands, hands at his sides curled into fists.  </p><p>He has this gnawing feeling inside him that they’re needlessly running out of time, because you’ve been taken more than 6 hours ago now, and he dreads what he will find – if he ever finds you. </p><p>“...uh, the CFO” she says at last. </p><p>“Multi-tasking” JJ huffs out. “She can kidnap and still conduct business.” </p><p>“Like mother, like son” Rossi mutters. </p><p>“Do they have residences near Saltwater Park?” Hotch asks. “Registered or not?” </p><p>Garcia bops her head to where Reid stands “I’ve checked high and low and thoroughly – there's nothing else apart from the ones on that map” </p><p>“They’ve been doing everything so openly” Prentiss says. “And she doesn’t care anymore” </p><p>And for Hotch that is enough. </p><p>“Okay” he lets out, “Garcia send us the GPS location. JJ, hold off until Homeland Security confirms. The others with me – let’s end this today.” </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p><em> You’re armless, without a gun and hanging by a thread – and even though Nathan has lost a lot of blood, he’s bigger and larger than you and his weight pins you down. His warm blood seeps through your clothes and you feel weak, fragile and unable to fight him off you or even finish this. </em> </p><p><em> How had your father killed several girls? How had he watched the life leave their clear eyes, without hesitating?  </em> </p><p><em> While you’re here, incapable of defending yourself.  </em> </p><p><em> Nathan grunts above you every time his limp arm grazes against you, or you shift. </em> </p><p><em> But you’re not a helpless little girl – you've fended off men larger and bigger than him. You’d fended off your father, stoop up to him when he was  </em> <em> 2 </em> <em>  times Nathan’s size. And scarier. </em> </p><p><em> The blade of the cutter presses against your side, and you gasp.  </em> </p><p><em> “Motherfucker” you breathe out, and you don’t feel weak anymore. </em> </p><p><em> You push him off you, holding your elbows up high, and you rotate, even as the blade sinks deeper into your skin. But his fingers let go and they apply no more pressure. </em> </p><p><em> “You piece of shit-”  </em> </p><p><em> His hand reaches up, wrapping at once around your neck, fingers and thumb pressed to the side, cutting off your oxygen for a mere split-second. </em> </p><p><em> “Let’s go together” he lets out, still in this fantasy of his – that he wants you to share. “I know you cannot kill me”  </em> </p><p><em> Your movement is deliberate, hand letting go from pushing at his chest, as  </em> <em> you take the blade hidden in the waistband of your pants </em> <em> .  </em> </p><p><em> “You have nobody but me, _______” he roars, “Darling, there’s nobody else but me and you.” </em> </p><p><em> And you sink the blade right into his neck. He looks stunned. Then stops. </em> </p><p><em> Your eyes stay fixed on his, and the act of it never makes you halt. There are no tears blurring your vision. No gasping for breath, as you watch him without blinking. </em> </p><p><em> His hand drops from your neck, and paws at the blade still lodged at the side of his neck. </em> </p><p><em> You pull yourself up, no longer straddling him and take a step back. He gasps and sputters for breath and your eyes are wide – watching it all. You back away all the to the wall, and slide down.  </em> </p><p><em> He eventually stops breathing. </em> </p><p><em> You don’t go for help. You don’t cry. </em> </p><p><em> --- </em> </p><p> </p><p>Morgan kicks down the entrance door, and Hotch’s glad at the many lackeys outside of the 2-storey house, and then inside too. It means they’re in the right track.  </p><p>And it’s shot after shot, as they respond guns blaring. But Hotch doesn’t stop – he clears a path right to the stairs, and watches Reid and Rossi climb the steps, followed by the SWAT team, they’d called. Prentiss and he clear the ground floor, with Morgan in tow. They pass living room, dining, a study room, then a kitchen. And Hotch stops, seeing a glass door and descending steps. </p><p>“Basement” Prentiss says.  </p><p>Hotch pushes the door open, and they hurry downstairs to what looks like a cellar. </p><p>His ears and eyes are sharp, trying to garner for any sign of life – hoping more than anything to hear your voice. A gasp, a groan, an inhale – anything at all, as his heart pounds loudly in his chest and thrums at his ears. </p><p>Because you can’t be gone like this – not like this. </p><p>“Hotch” Morgan yells, and when he notes the trail of blood too, sputtered across the stone pavement, his feet carry him further down the tunneled room.  </p><p>“Hands where I can see them!” Prentiss shouts.  </p><p>And Hotch’s eyes are glued to the floor, following the trail of blood. Glass shards and wine bottles are shattered all over the ground, a few shelves perched over fallen against one another.  </p><p>You’ve picked up a fight – he realizes, with a breath of relief. </p><p>Wine and blood – he hopes it’s more wine than blood – continues forward, until it becomes small trickles. </p><p>Behind him, Morgan and Prentiss handcuff a rambling Lucille, dress shoes plastered with wine and soaked in blood. </p><p>Hotch follows the droplets, going further down the tunnel and then he halts – a faint, weak echo, originating from behind two shelves, of a singular long-drawn breath – and he surges forward, calling your name. </p><p>Cowered in a corner, backed against the wall, two angled wine shelves on each side, and gripping a half-shattered wine bottle on your hand, you look up at him with wild eyes. </p><p>“Hotch?”  </p><p>He holsters his weapon and <em>practically </em> runs to you, not caring about anything else in the world. </p><p>You look weakened, and your shirt is soaked through and through. You throw the bottle away from you at once and as soon as he’s near, he winces at the sight of your face too. </p><p>Prickles of blood run from your temple, and behind your ear. He says your name again, impossibly tender and your eyes flutter closed. </p><p>“______? I’m here.” </p><p>Something finally cracks. “<em>Please, please, please.. </em>.” you clutch at his collar with desperation, staining the white fabric with dirt, wine and blood – hers and yours. His arms wrap around you and you let go, begging with quiet whimpers. </p><p>“Get me the<em> fuck</em> out of here... Hotch... get me out. Please, I want out...” you swallow thick, and he feels the violent shivers of your body as he presses you close to his chest. “Hotch, <em>please</em>...” </p><p>And that’s when the tears come, thick and hot pouring down your face at once, and he nuzzles you close. He cannot see where the wounds are, fails to spot them with the way your shirt clings to your skin. He hoists you up, an arm tucked underneath your legs, and the other around your back, your arms looped around his neck. </p><p>“You’re okay. It’s going to be okay” he whispers softly, sweet reassurances and appraisals parting from his lips without a second-thought. “<em>Baby</em>, you’re okay. Nothing can harm you. Nobody  <em> will </em> harm you. You’re safe, now. It’s over.” </p><p>His lips press at your temple, forehead and top of your head, trying to calm down your breathing, knowing how vital it is it to keep your heart pressure controlled in case of a large blood loss. </p><p>Once out of the cellar, he pushes through until he sees the ambulance. EMT’s scurry towards him, begging him to let you go, but he never stops, carrying you himself all the way to the stretcher inside the vehicle. </p><p>“We have an unconscious patient” one of them yells and Hotch stills, realizing only now the limpness of your arms around him, how you’d stopped shaking entirely. </p><p>The EMTs take over at once and he steps back, watching them hover over your body. Checking the airway – then for injuries, tearing open your shirt and detaching it off your skin. </p><p>Hotch looks at them hypnotized, and he’s sure he’s stopped breathing. They take note of the injuries – one right over the liver, a few across the chest, and a large slit over your knee. </p><p>“In or out?” one of the EMTs asks.  </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“We move in 30 seconds to the nearest hospital. She’s lost a lot of blood. If we don’t get a transfusion right now-” </p><p>His feet remain planted on the ground. Because the last talk you’d had with him had been in anger and rushed. He’s not sure if you’d even want him there. If he even gets to be by your side. </p><p>“Aaron, we’ll take it from here” Dave is by his side all of the sudden, and he slaps a hand over his shoulder. It snaps him out of it. </p><p>He climbs in the back. He nods at his friend once, taking in the rosary in his hands. It brings comfort to him that even Dave is praying. He clasps one of your hands, holding onto it for dear life. </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p>They let him inside the room only hours after. You’re patched up, connected to a thin tube as the blood transfusion continues. They say you’re fine but it all depends on when you wake up.  </p><p>He takes the seat next to your bed, planting himself over it, and takes your hand in his at once.  </p><p>Laying down on the hospital bed, cuts and bruises on your face and neck, under-eye circles so deep they go to your cheekbones – he's merely existing. </p><p>Watching you in this state – so feeble and silent, so unlike you – the lump lodged in his throat is bigger. He cannot swallow it any longer. He brushes his lips against your knuckles and the three words he whispers are hushed and tender, pressed into your skin like a lifeline. </p><p>If he could breathe life into you, he would. </p><p>But for now, he resorts to speaking the words he cannot say anywhere else but in this room, while you’re unconscious. </p><p>“I love you” he whispers. Holds a breath, studying your eyelids for any flutter; the side of your lips for any tilt upwards – as if his words could wake you and you’d confront him right away if he means what he says or if he’s lying. </p><p>“I love you” he says, louder this time, running softly a thumb down your cheek. The coldness of your soft skin makes his worry grow exponentially. </p><p>He settles back against the chair, resigned to having to swallow yet another secret. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>You wake up a day or so after – and it’s in a panic, your body convulsing, forgetting for a millisecond you’re out of Lucille’s wine cellar. When you see blinding white, and hear the soft beeps in the background you’re convinced you’re gone. But then something shifts at your right. </p><p>JJ sits beside you and she gives you a gentle smile. </p><p>“Hey, you’re awake” she says. “We’ve been waiting for you” </p><p>You’re not disappointed, you convince yourself. Because at least you didn’t wake alone, but your heart wanted someone else. </p><p>“I’m alive” you say, surprising yourself. “I’m alive”  </p><p>She nods, and gives you the space needed to come to terms with everything and gather your wits. </p><p>“Lucille?” you ask. </p><p>“She’s in a better shape” JJ answers, “but you put up a good fight. She's going to trial for kidnapping and more.” </p><p>You squeeze your eyes shut. How long would that even last for a person brandishing as much power and wealth as her? </p><p>“The Andersons” she starts, and you open your eyes. “They knew about Nathan’s business – a human trafficking ring.” </p><p>You nod. “There’s necessary proof to land them to prison for life.” </p><p>“Okay” you breathe out.  </p><p>They’re all gone, then. No more Andersons to roam around. </p><p>Except for you – still bearing <em>the damned name. </em> </p><p>“There’s something else.” She says in a small voice. </p><p>Your heart lurches forward. Did Hotch get harmed somehow? Is that why he’s not here? </p><p>“We believe your husband, Nathan, was a serial killer. We do not have the evidence to prove it, naturally. However, his childhood, his personality, his tendencies – they all point to violent behavior, of the serial kind.” </p><p>Your face reacts on its own, too used, and too good to lie through your body language. </p><p>“<em>Fucking cherry on the cake </em>” </p><p>She huffs out a laugh at that. </p><p>----- </p><p> </p><p><em> The entire office smells like bleach and cinnamon – a concoction you’d came up with for cleaning. And you’re grateful for  </em> <em> the knowledge acquired working – from the strip club, to home-cleaning for the condo. </em><em>The trip in the middle of the night  </em> <em> has left the smell of his corpse, </em> <em>  fresh dirt and animal carcass etched on  </em> <em> the tip of your tongue.  </em> <em> Yet your mind is caught on something els</em><em>e. You should have known. You should have seen him do this – what were the cameras for then? </em> </p><p><em> You </em><em>access them from Nathan’s computer </em><em>and even though not an expert – you’d learned a lot from him, already.  </em> </p><p><em> He’d manipulated the</em><em>m. The real footage shows him taking meetings in his office. Strange men and women walking in. </em><em>You spe</em><em>ed up</em><em> all the way to today’s date. It’s alien-like: seeing your own movements as you strike him again and again inside the kitchen. Even more so when </em><em>it all ends here, inside</em><em> the office. </em> </p><p><em> It’s self-preservation, you remind yourself. And purely selfish. </em> </p><p><em> But you delete everything. All the proof </em> <em>  that he’s been doing something illegal. </em> </p><p><em> Only because you want to  </em> <em> save yourself. </em> </p><p><em> -- </em> </p><p> </p><p>The trial for the Andersons calls for a witness statement to be made in person, in front of the judges. Your hospital room is heavily guarded – day and night and Agent Rossi and JJ have passed a few times to check on you. Agent Prentiss as well to relay any updates on the Anderson trial.  </p><p>Hotch hasn’t been once and you know what it’s about – he’s putting distance in between because of your admission to killing Nathan.  </p><p>And because you refuse to confess. </p><p>“Ready?” Agent Prentiss asks once you’re out of the room. She stands in the hall, surrounded by two other police officers. </p><p>“Yes. Hope this bitch gets sent to prison for life” </p><p>To which she flashes you a smile. </p><p>The trial is long and continues without interruption, and having to stare at Lucille again makes you queasy.  </p><p>You tell the judges about the abuse and stalking she’d done from the beginning. To the accusations that you’d want to harm your husband – that you expertly deny. And when lightning tears run down your face they’re not crocodile tears – not in the least.  </p><p>They give her a life sentence and drag her out in handcuffs.  </p><p>Agents Rossi, Prentiss and JJ wait for you outside, and even though you’d thought you’d seen Hotch while giving your statement – you don’t see him around. </p><p>“What will you do now?” Agent Rossi asks, stopping your perusal of the space for any signs of the tall man with a suit and a stern face. </p><p>“Something Lucille would haunt me down for when she finds out-“ you say, shoving your hands in your pockets. “I’m giving away all the Anderson fortune” </p><p>He nods.  </p><p>“I would have given it to the project Therese is running in New York, but I don’t want her to have dirty money. She’d hate me for it.” </p><p>“Where are you sending it then?” JJ asks. </p><p>There’d been a few options – charities to abandoned kids, like you’d felt living and growing alone with no parents, victims of domestic abuse, and more.  </p><p>“It’s going to be a split between a lot of charities” you explain. “anonymously too, because I don’t want the Anderson name to get back to the tabloids and for them to have an ounce of respect.” </p><p>“Figures” Prentiss chimes in with a smile.  </p><p>“And where will you head out?” </p><p>Seattle is no longer an option, and you’d never wanted to be back even once out of prison. Virginia had been the next destination – cut short after meeting the BAU. But you don’t know if it’s worth it to be in the same state as them. Or as Hotch. </p><p>The press on the steps outside the court entrance makes you hesitate – even as Agent Prentiss and JJ leave. Only Agent Rossi remains. </p><p>“I think I’ll stay with Therese for a few months.”  </p><p>He nods and pauses too. </p><p>“Well, let me know if you’re ever back in Washington D.C. I’d love to meet up and have a cook off” </p><p>You let out a laugh at that, relieved of the fact you now have a friend in him too. </p><p>He turns to face you. </p><p>“I think the back entrance is a safer bet. Don’t you?” </p><p>You’d thought of it too, but there’s a flicker of amusement on his eyes, and the corner of his lips is slightly tilted.  </p><p>Words dry out in your mouth, expectation blooming inside you. </p><p>Hotch? He’s here? </p><p>But he doesn’t let you ask as his hands squeeze your elbows affectionately. </p><p>“I’ll see you soon, bella”  </p><p>“You too, Agent Rossi” </p><p>You watch him leave by the front entrance and you shamelessly run the opposite direction, heart pounding on your chest. </p><p>Hotch is waiting. Hotch waited. He knew about the press and – does he want to speak? Hash everything out? Does he still care? </p><p>You slam the door open, finding yourself in an alleyway between buildings, long and narrow and far away from the press and anyone else.  </p><p>At the sight of him, emotions overflow you, more potent and overwhelming than ever before. He’s wearing a dark suit and red tie, and stands tall and imposing, hands in his pockets. Hotch turns around, hearing the door. </p><p>He doesn’t smile once. His face doesn’t let out. If anything, the more you approach him, the more the frown on his face grows. </p><p>“Hotch-“ you croak out, feeling disheartened by his demeanor. </p><p>“Your crocodile tears are impeccable. You’re a very talented actress. Maybe that should be your new venture” He says sharply. </p><p>You suck in a breath feeling like he’s struck a knife in you. </p><p>“Hotch, I wasn’t-“ </p><p>“No” he snaps, cutting you off, narrowing the distance at once, “you get to listen this time: I don’t want to see you on tv, on the news or anywhere else. I don’t want to hear from you. Even an innocuous photo captured at a cultural event or even a small article. If anything is written about you – I will find out. You understand?” </p><p>He regards you with no empathy and his voice is gravelly and rough.  </p><p>“Do you understand me?” he threatens with a deep voice, peering at you from underneath his furrowed brows. </p><p>You nod, feeling unsteady under his gaze, and engulfed by the smell of him. Last time you’d been this close to each other you’d yelled at him. And before then you’d kissed him and held him close. It’s like a goddamn roller-coaster ride of sensations. </p><p>“The next time you’re in a police precinct will be your last time. I’m not giving you leniency. A confession is a confession, and I will not let it bypass second time. Do you understand me?” </p><p>He manages to leave you speechless and with a million questions on your mind at once. </p><p>You nod again. </p><p>“Good” he huffs out. He takes a step back and that’s when it rips you apart.  </p><p><em> No </em> – you correct yourself – the last time had been when he’d gathered you up in his arms, in that cellar. Kissing you and holding tight as you bled out into his chest. He’d looked at you broken-hearted, eyes trailing the wounds on your face and collarbones.  </p><p>He’d never held you as tenderly as then. You’d been shaking and crying, staining his vest and shirt with snot and blood, while he whispered gentle words against your forehead and cheek. Lips grazing your skin as he kissed you. Affectionate reassurances pressed to your ear. Holding you so tight as if he’d been afraid you’d dissipate into thin air. </p><p>You couldn’t have been imagining it all. </p><p>You couldn’t have – or he’s better at acting than he lets on. </p><p>“That’s it?” your voice is still weak, affected from his proximity. He’s not too close but you still feel his body heat, even through your clothes. It makes you falter and your voice break. “You’re just giving me orders to follow and I have to obey, mindlessly?” </p><p>His voice is rougher. “Yes. Is there a problem with that?” </p><p>And you know he’s saving your ass from jail but you’re still mad, and utterly annoyed.  </p><p>Tears well up and you swallow them down, choking on your words. “Why didn’t you visit me in the hospital?” </p><p>He falters, brows shooting up in surprise. </p><p>“I almost died. That’s what the doctors said”  </p><p>It hurts more than anything else, and it’s incredibly stupid.  </p><p>“Yet you never even came in to see for yourself how I was doing.” </p><p>He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. </p><p>“<em>For fuck’s sake</em> even Agent Morgan came over once. Obviously it was to check my statement on Nathan, but  only you did not. Your <em>entire</em> team, Hotch. They all showed up but you. And I didn’t sleep with any of them.” You poke his chest, “I slept with <em>you” </em> </p><p>Hotch looks at your hand against his chest and draws in a breath. </p><p>“Did I mean so little?” you whisper not quite looking at him in the eyes. “Was I just your rebound slut while you got over Haley?” </p><p>His eyes widen as he scours his brain for how you could know her name, if it had ever slipped from his tongue or if the others have mentioned her. </p><p>“You were quite heartless, Aaron. Thanks for the transparency at least.” </p><p>You move back but he captures your wrist in his hand, stopping you from leaving. </p><p>“...the footage from the cameras” he says between his teeth, jaw clenched tight. “you got rid of it. Why?” </p><p>And of course he’s still an agent, always on duty. It so easily builds up rage inside you solely because he avoids your question. </p><p>“It incriminates me” you push away from him, “I don’t give a shit what Nathan has done, as long as I’m safe.” </p><p>“You’re being selfish” </p><p>That’s the last straw. </p><p><em>“I am </em>being selfish?” you thunder, darting into his space. “I have nobody, Hotch. Nobody on this goddamn earth that gives a shit about me! Nathan took away my last family. He took away my character, and my humanity. You-“  </p><p>He looks at you with wild eyes. </p><p>“You took my dignity. And you think I am being selfish? If I don’t look out for my own skin – nobody else will! If I don’t save myself, who else will fucking do it!” </p><p>His eyes trace the faint bruises under your chin, the scar cutting your brow in two, and the flesh-colored scar peeking out from the top of your shirt. Your face isn’t pale anymore, and your skin is colored with health but for a moment – he remembers the coldness of your hand in his, and the deep under-eye circles. He swallows, trying to forget the stillness of your body, the shallow breaths, and even the painful silence in that hospital room. </p><p>Your fiery eyes regard him with anger. </p><p>“I told you about the deal. I would have gotten you-“ </p><p>“Fuck your deal!” </p><p>He flinches. </p><p><em> Why didn’t he show up? Why didn’t he just once, pop his head inside the room just to look at the state of you and then wordlessly leave?  </em> </p><p>He got to save you, pick you up and call you <em> baby</em> when you were scared, but he couldn’t visit you at the hospital? </p><p>“You know what’s unnerving?” you yell, “the fact that I still cannot hate you – for doing your fucking job, for wasting my time, for using me as you wish.” </p><p>His mouth is open again but there are no words. Hotch lets his mind forget the sight of you in that cellar, then in that bed - because he<em> has you </em>in front of him, alive and spitting the words at his face. So close to him that your chest brushes against his, and he contains the groan that wants to escape. The smell of you again – the taste of you that he can almost feel, solely out of memory – presses at his tongue, and he’s helpless. Reduced to <em>want</em>, once again, as his eyes fixate on your lips. </p><p>“I can’t be mad at you because-“ </p><p>“Because?” he urges, deep voice and challenging eyes, hard on you. As if he can read what you’re trying to say. But he can, you realize. It’s his goddamn job. Your fingers fist. </p><p>“Because I love you!” you slam against his chest, baring your teeth. “I <em>fucking</em> love you and I can’t bear the thought of you seeing me like that. I don’t want you to see me as anything else but the person I am now and here” </p><p>And you gasp as he rushes you, and snatches your lower lip between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth.  </p><p><em> Fuck</em>. Your heart skips a beat. <em>Did he just-? </em> </p><p>But you have no time to process it.  </p><p>Hotch grabs your hips, still holding your lips between his teeth, and hauls you up, twisting you before he slams you against the wall. </p><p>“Your mouth" he breathes out, his words in large contrast to the way his body presses against yours, “I don’t care what you do – scream, fight or insult – as long as you do it to me.” </p><p>He covers your mouth with his, and moves tantalizingly slow, in and out like the waves of the ocean, in and out as he draws your bottom lip inside his mouth and drags it out like a threat. It makes your hunger for him increase, melting with the anger you still feel. </p><p>“<em>Hotch”  </em>you clutch his suit jacket with both fists as the overwhelming warmth in your chest rushes down to your stomach, settling between your thighs.  </p><p>And he can tell because he chooses that moment to squeeze the back of your neck and push his tongue into your mouth. </p><p>You whimper at the warm slickness of his tongue, and you moan in his mouth. </p><p>“ <em>Fuck” </em>you gasp, angling your head back as his mouth moves down your neck. His warm lips, his touch, even the butterflies you feel pulsating everywhere – neck, cheeks, mouth – they make you forget every argument, every thought. Even the last few minutes when he’d told you to disappear.  </p><p>You groan, memories of the last time he’d touched you like this still fresh, and anticipation gets to you once again, and the pulse between your legs pounds wildly. </p><p>“Hotch... I’m... I...” you stammer. “<em>Fuck it </em>” you have no more restraint. </p><p>Grabbing his hard waist to show how much you still desire him – you roll your hips into his, a groan humming against your skin as he licks and kisses your neck. </p><p>“Christ” his breath fans your ear, “how am I going to leave you?” </p><p>You have no time to register his statement, especially since it seems like he’s talking to himself.  </p><p>With your arms around his neck, you press your body against his, and sink your lips into his.  </p><p>You don’t care if this is the last time you get to kiss him like this. You chant it in your head. <em>You don‘t care</em> – as long as you both make this time count.  </p><p>He grunts against your mouth, his hands on your ass bringing your rough and hard against him, continuing the movement of your hips. </p><p>Then his phone blasts, ringing from somewhere inside his suit jacket. His mouth trails down below, never once stopping as you open your eyes and fumble for the jacket, trying to find the source of disturbance. Your fingers fidget with his tie unnecessarily, feeling his torso and brushing against his neck, and he bites harshly the sweet spot on your neck as payback, drawing a moan out of you. </p><p>You find the phone in his inside pocket a the same moment it stops ringing. And Hotch continues kissing, nibbling and licking the underside of your jaw, and you struggle to keep your eyes and focus sharp. The phone flashes with a new text message. </p><p><em> Need I remind you that the plane leaves in 20 minutes? – Dave </em> </p><p>You suck in a breath, the mood switches immediately. He feels it too, stopping everything.  </p><p>“You have a flight to catch” you let out, voice still breathy from his ministrations.  </p><p>“In less than 20” </p><p>Hotch pulls back, drops you to your feet. His hands cup your face, thumb tracing softly your brow with the scar.  </p><p>“I’m...” he starts to say something but you cut him off. </p><p>“I don’t need you to say anything in return, Hotch. I think you should just go” </p><p>“No” he says, and his hands draw you in again. Yours stay pressed against his chest, keeping the distance. He looks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and burgundy, and the flop of ungelled hair against his forehead moves slowly with the breeze that suddenly surrounds you.  </p><p>“I lo-“ </p><p>“<em>Please </em>” you interrupt again. Whatever it is – urged by the passion or as a need for wanting to reciprocate – you don‘t want to hear it. Your heart though demands it, wants to hear those words. It wants to hear his statement even if it's a lie. “you don’t have to. Just go” </p><p>He gives you one last glance and then he leaves.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks as always for reading!!💕💕💕<br/>as alwaysss lemme know what you think!!</p><p>(and yes im a sucker for angry love confessions and ALSO for confession when they see their s.o hurt so it was nice to write both 😌<br/>(also pls dont hate me - there might be just a couple chapters left lmao)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Que reste-t-il de nos amours?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hearing about your father – in the news, in police warnings broadcasted in the radio, or even as a hushed word spoken in public transportation – happens 2 years later. </p><p>*title: what remains of our love?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey yall thnx for all the love!!</p><p>idk what this chapter is lmao i wanted the BAU banter, and i've been listening to false god by taylor swift on repeat (and wrote this fresh after rewatching moonlight for the thousandth time), hence this stupid fun chapter (and possibly some good-old yearning)<br/>and yes murder is back on the menu, duh (when is it not? lmao)</p><p>hope u enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hearing about your father was not how you’d imagined the last week to go by.  </p><p>Hearing about him – in the news, in police warnings broadcasted in the radio, or even as a hushed word spoken in public transportation – happens 2 years later. </p><p>You stop before the police car, watching the young officer who’d waved at you get out and come around to face you. He’s youngish, fresh buzzcut and the uniform he dons is a size too big for his thin silhouette. He flashes you a sheepish smile.  </p><p>“Thank you for stopping, Miss. I saw you in the last crime scene – we have an obligation to keep all civilians patrolling the area in order to question them. I saw you slip by and I have to ask you a couple of questions... Won’t take too long, promise.” </p><p>You squeeze the paper cup in your hands and take another sip of your coffee, not caring how suspicious that is – acting casual and unaffected from an officer chasing you down because you’d left a crime scene in a hurry. </p><p>“Sure” you say. “go ahead” </p><p>His smile falters in his face, having expected you to shoot out an excuse instead. He takes a pen and a pocket-size notepad, and flips it open, ready to write. </p><p>“What’s your name?” </p><p>You size him up – it’s not the fact that he chased you down that tells you he’s new at his job, and not necessarily his age either, but the way he holds your gaze. Doubt and challenge seeps through. It’s been a minute so you finally give him leeway – your name and surname. </p><p>“Why were you at Marshall Heights today at 6pm?” </p><p>You look down at your watch, thinking about how long it will take before he says the words you want him to. </p><p>“I am an avid church goer” you lie. “I attend St. Luke Catholic Church.” </p><p>He’s not convinced. “The 53rd street is far away from St. Luke” he rebuts, eyes narrowing.  </p><p>You shrug, “Had to take my child to CW Harris Elementary School, then” </p><p>He writes it down, not hiding the fact his eyes pan to your left, noting the lack of a wedding band in your finger. </p><p>“Are you a single mother, Miss?” </p><p>The snort that escapes you is genuine – <em>yes imagine that</em>. “Sure.” </p><p>He cocks an eyebrow, jaw clenching tight, finally showing you a bit of frustration that you so desperately seek. <em>Oh man</em>, did you miss pushing people’s buttons. Especially law enforcement people. Sure, it wasn’t  the same as the <em>real</em> thing – not when this kid looks a tad shorter than you, and barely can hold up his authority as is, let alone around real criminals. </p><p>…<em>other</em> criminals.  </p><p>He flips his notepad, closing it. “Would you care to come with me to the police precinct, Miss? I’d like to ask you a couple of more questions” </p><p>You bite your lip, barely stifling the smile of content that makes its way through. </p><p>Luckily, he doesn’t see it as he turns to open the door of his car. At least he’s a gentleman like<em> him</em>. </p><p>You let out a sigh, feigning impatience. “Thought you said this wouldn’t take you long.” But you giddily get in the backseat.  </p><p>The drive through Washington DC., all the way to the police precinct is not long, but it gives you time to think. You aren’t happy about your father finally showing up where you live, not at all. Not when it took him as long as 2 years. A part of you had hoped he’d died quietly, somewhere in a ditch, or in the streets, alone and in the cold. But Davis Finch has never been one to sit idle. Not even when he was drunk out of his mind.  </p><p>The first time you’d seen him, you’d thought your mind was playing tricks on you, some kind of PTSD from everything that happened with Lucille, Nathan, and whatever your father had done.  </p><p>It had been close to midnight, streets almost empty and deserted, while you were tipsy and laughing at something Clara and Kai were saying – all of you out leaving a club earlier than usual. You’d felt a shudder pass through your spine, as all three of you were waiting for the Uber, before a storefront. And he was there, the opposite street, looking at you from underneath a baseball cap, dressed in dark clothing and looking rugged, dirty, and alone. Finally, his appearance matching the blackness of his heart. He wasn’t looking at you. In fact, you don’t think he even recognized you. His eyes were steadfast on Clara, on her short light hair and slim and short body. He was almost hypnotized, watching her pull Kai and lean in to kiss him. And you’d wanted to sprint there, make him stop and then – then... </p><p><em> Then what –  </em>kill your own father? </p><p>You croak a laugh, focusing at the cityscape passing from the car window. Your phone buzzes and you see another message from Clara: <em>text me after you see him. </em> </p><p><em> Right</em>. You shake the feelings off. <em>You have a plan. </em>  </p><p>The car pulls up in front of the building, and the young officer opens up the door. You step out, brushing your palms over the fabric of your pants – hands shaky and sweaty now all of the sudden, remembering the order he’d given you long time ago.  </p><p><em> The next time you’re in a police precinct will be your last time. </em> </p><p>Fuck, what if this had been a really fucking stupid idea? </p><p>It had been two years. And you thought you could waltz into a precinct, try to incriminate yourself as a suspect just so you’d have the entire BAU investigate you again? Just so you could have<em> him </em>question you himself?  </p><p>This could all easily blow up on your face. He’d have no patience with you anymore – he wouldn’t have a reason to be. You hadn’t slept with him in two years. You were a stranger to him. And he to you.  </p><p>Even though you hadn’t stopped thinking about him once.  </p><p>“This way, Miss” the officer says, motioning a hand for you to step inside, as he holds with another hand the door open.  </p><p>No, this wasn’t a good idea at all. What were you supposed to greet him with? </p><p><em> Hello, we both know my father committed these murders, but I thought about you nearly every day and I regret not letting you finish that sentence last time we saw each other so - </em><em>Can you do it now?  </em> </p><p>You shake your head –<em> pathetic</em>. That’s what this attempt is. </p><p>You walk in either way, following behind. He stops in front of a reception, telling you to wait and leaves, probably to tell his superiors about the potential new lead.  </p><p>You don’t even know if he’s even single anymore, that’s what you realize now. Agent Rossi had once said he’d separated from his wife despite still being in love with her, and he has a kid. You were nothing, again. </p><p><em> God </em>, is this stupid. </p><p>You heave a sigh, feeling small again surrounded by the heavy police presence. A part of you knows – <em>expects</em> what he will say upon seeing you again, and hearing your real motives for being here. Selfish – <em>you  </em> <em> ar</em><em>e being selfish again. </em> </p><p><em> “______?”  </em>A familiar voice behind you calls your name. </p><p>You whip around, stopping in front of Agent Rossi, all clad in a grey suit. </p><p>“Agent Rossi!” you gasp. </p><p>He blinks slowly, as if he’s not quite believing the sight of you. Then his eyes go to the surroundings, as if he’s forgotten where you both are. </p><p>“What - ?” </p><p>But before either of you can talk, the young officer is back, smiling wide at Agent Rossi’s presence. </p><p>“Agent Rossi – oh thank God, you’re here. Officer Malarkey told me all the agents were out so I wasn’t counting on seeing anyone around.” </p><p>He doesn’t tear his eyes off you yet. The officer takes a step forward, trying to desperately whisper something at him out of your earshot. You hear everything. </p><p>“I have someone to interrogate – a civilian who tried to get into the last crime scene.” </p><p>Agent Rossi spares him a glance. </p><p>“You said it was a single mother with the surname ---?” </p><p>He says the surname you gave him. Then your name. Agent Rossi looks at you again, finally making the connection.  </p><p>“Not a single mother though.” you shrug sheepishly, “I’m afraid the kid made a wrong deduction.” </p><p>The officer glares daggers at you. </p><p>Agent Rossi smirks, cocking an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m sure he deduced that incorrectly all on his own.” </p><p>You smile, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. The entire BAU in fact, is familiar with your shenanigans, you’d just not expected them to have become your trademark. </p><p>“What can I say? I wanted to see what I looked like to the outside eye.” </p><p>“And did you enjoy it?” </p><p>The officer between you two is forgotten.  </p><p>“Was quite offended” you admit with a coy smile. “Didn’t think I was old enough to come across as a mother.” </p><p>“Oh, you’re not. Surely, it was mere confusion.” </p><p>Your cheeks flush at his words, feeling that same amicability from years ago surround you both just as easily as it had back then. That, and his easy charm too. </p><p>“But it’s not an answer to my question.” </p><p>“I <em>may</em> have said something to make him<em> think</em> I was in the neighborhood for other reasons.”  </p><p>Agent Rossi nods, letting out a small <em>ah. </em> </p><p><em> “ </em> And maybe I enjoy being  <em> profiled </em> more.” </p><p>He chuckles, patting the back of the kid, who looks lost at your interaction. </p><p>“I’ll handle this, officer Hare.” </p><p>“Should I prepare the interrogation room?” he asks, with too much zest, making you chuckle. Wants to impress the FBI as well, huh?  </p><p>“She’s not a suspect.”  </p><p>The officer looks at you, then back at the agent. “Sir, with all due respect, she tried to break in and she lied about her real intentions. How can she not be a suspect?” </p><p>You have an answer to that.  </p><p>“We don’t need an interrogation room, kid. Okay?” </p><p>He doesn’t budge, so Agent Rossi huffs, finally letting out. </p><p>“Because her father committed the crimes. Not her.” </p><p>The officer’s eyes go wide, eyebrows shooting up and he turns to you. </p><p>“I didn’t know Davis Finch had a daughter.” </p><p>He looks at you just like everyone else in your life has done – with pity, shock, and even a hint of fear. </p><p>“He doesn’t” you rebut with a bite. “I never had a father” </p><p>Agent Rossi claps a hand over his shoulder, giving him a cue to leave and he finally does. </p><p>A moment of silence passes between you even through the bustling of a busy precinct. He studies your appearance, taking in your medium-long hair, the white button-up – hiding the scars from two years ago, and the dark slacks. You look different. You feel so, after shedding the Anderson surname and the past with them.  </p><p>But under his gaze, you feel the same. </p><p>“Since when have you been in DC.?” he asks, face serious. </p><p>“A year ago.” you answer. </p><p>He nods. He’d told you to keep in touch but you don’t think he’d meant it – not with Hotch around. And a part of you hadn’t been ready to meet them all again, not when the Andersons still lingered like a bad taste on your mouth – yet to dissipate. </p><p>“Come on” he says, bopping his head to the door at your left. “We have a lot to catch up” </p><p>You look back at the door, then at the offices ahead. Even though he’d said he didn’t need an interrogation room, you expected him to still question you. Not take you out of the precinct altogether. </p><p>“Where to?”   </p><p>“There’s a nice bar, fifteen minutes away from here.” </p><p><em> Or take you out. </em> </p><p>But he doesn’t wait for you to accept or decline, he turns, continues ahead to the front door. You’re surprised but nevertheless, trail behind. </p><p>He holds the door open for you. </p><p>You point with a thumb to the building you’d just exited. “Don’t you have an active investigation?” </p><p><em> Or somewhere to be? Someone to catch? </em> </p><p>Agent Rossi smiles instead, “I’ll tell you once at the bar.” </p><p>You give up. This afternoon seems to be about bartering for information. </p><p>“This bar better have a damn good gin and tonic, too.” </p><p>He laughs wholeheartedly, and the feelings of nervousness from being inside a police precinct from before are a forgotten memory now. </p><p>---------- </p><p> </p><p>It’s when the second G&amp;T shows up before you, at the small circular table you’re sitting around with Agent Rossi, that you realize what he’s been doing for the past hour – <em>h</em><em>ours? </em>– and you smile.  </p><p>“How did you know I needed a drink?” you ask, cutting through the pretense.  </p><p>Taking you out of the precinct, giving you a drink, making you open up: he was a damn good agent and friend too. Multitasking like this – profiling you<em> and</em> keeping you away from Hotch. </p><p>He shrugs, nursing the same glass of whiskey he’d ordered since you both sat down.  </p><p><em> The fight is over</em>, you remind yourself. Sure, he doesn’t know you as Hotch does – <em>did. </em>But that doesn’t mean he has some sort of hidden agenda. At least, you hadn’t spotted him take out his phone and text or call someone, to let them know you’re here. </p><p>To let <em>Hotch</em> know. </p><p>Suddenly, that’s all you want him to do now.  </p><p>Back then, having them investigate you meant every single one of the agents knew about your location at all times. Now, it’s not necessary anymore. </p><p>“Your father showing up at the same city you live. Two bodies in the span of a week. Then, wanting to break into a crime scene and fooling that poor kid. It is a cry for help if I’ve ever seen one.” </p><p>You grimace, and look down at your glass. </p><p>“It’s isn’t a cry for help. I knew he’d be back someday, doing shit like this. I just... hoped he’d be too old or something.” </p><p><em> Do serial killers even </em><em>retire? </em> </p><p>He scoffs. “Old age doesn’t usually deter them. They just find new ways to hunt” </p><p><em> Hunt.  </em>Your stomach churns, but it’s not from the alcohol. </p><p>“What’s my father’s new way?” you ask. </p><p>Agent Rossi regards you with a curious look. </p><p>“I can live with it” you say, mustering fake courage. “What’s another one at this point?” </p><p>His expression doesn’t change, but he motions to your drink. You take the cue, downing half of it. The liquid burns your throat, making it restrict as you take a sharp breath. It’s effective at taking your mind away from your father. </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>. Okay, tell me now.” </p><p>He looks at your hands that have stopped shaking. Then. </p><p>“He’s tying them up. Wrists and ankles” </p><p>The nausea that hits you is violent and mind-numbing. <em>Tying them up.  </em> </p><p>Fucking scum. </p><p>The anger you feel towards him you direct to Agent Rossi. </p><p>“Why are you here with me? Why aren’t you out on the field? You look way too relaxed while a fucking serial killer just prances around the streets looking for another girl!” </p><p>His expression remains calm, even though your voice rises up. </p><p>“Are you even trying to catch my father? And why the fuck haven’t you called anyone ever since you met me?” </p><p>He takes a sip of his whiskey, the corner of his lips tilting up in amusement. Your nose flares, irritation swarming your body like hot lava. </p><p>“We have a few locations marked up” he says calmly, “police officers and agents patrolling each one of them. As soon as Davis Finch shows his face, he’s going straight to prison. There’s not going to be another victim.” </p><p>You glare at him, feeling relief and shame from your small blow up – <em>why the fuck didn’t he say that earlier?  </em> </p><p>“And the team has been on patrol for two days now.” There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes too, as he takes another sip. He glances at the watch wrapped around his wrist. “We always meet here before ending the day.” </p><p>Your eyes go to the door at once. Your heart gallops inside your chest, and you’re breathless too. Hotch’s not even here yet but the anticipation bubbles up inside you all the same.<em> Fuck. </em>  </p><p>You tip the glass to your lips, drinking the remaining alcohol. </p><p>Agent Rossi lets out a laugh. “I didn’t tell you because I’m genuinely curious how this will pan out.”  </p><p>You twist your head to stare at him – forgetting he’s even here. There’s a certain mischievousness playing behind his eyes. It’s been two years and Hotch still has a pull on you, before you even see him. </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p>Another hour passes before the team shuffles inside. While you wait, your leg bounces up and down with nervous energy and you steer away from alcohol – not because you don’t want to drink (or need to, for liquid courage) but because you dread how your body will respond around Hotch.  </p><p>JJ, Agent Prentiss, and Penelope – you launch yourself at her, meeting her for the first time ever, and she yelps in surprise but hugs you back – and agents Morgan and Reid all arrive just as Agent Rossi had said. They all take non-alcoholic drinks, and sit down around your table. They look tired and pale, like they haven’t slept in days. The guilt you’d felt yelling at Agent Rossi resurfaces but they don’t pay you any mind as the mood lightens up.  </p><p>Agent Morgan keeps his eyes on you, and you feel a bead of sweat run along your spine – worried about what he’s thinking. He's never trusted you. You don’t think he did even after the truth about the Andersons came out. </p><p>“You look bad” he says then. The others freeze. </p><p>You snort. “So do you, Agent.” </p><p>He shakes his head, face serious. “No. You look <em>actually</em> worse.” </p><p>“Well,” you think back to what Agent Rossi had told you a while ago. “my father is out and preying on girls again. Of course, I don’t feel fucking brilliant.” </p><p>He reaches up, “Give it four hours” he says, patting your shoulder in a strange act of comfort. “That bastard is going to get what he deserves.” </p><p>“Why four hours?” you ask, feeling appreciative for his gesture and words. </p><p>“That’s how long we’re supposed to relax before the next shift of patrol” </p><p>Penelope snorts. “They should be sleeping instead, but they’re all maniacally staying awake so they can get back to the field.” </p><p>Hence steering away from alcohol. And showing up here. They’re just killing time. So, where’s Hotch, then? Does he know his team isn’t following orders?  </p><p>You smile at your glass. Of course, he’s somewhere doing the same – being the workaholic he is. </p><p>“You guys need a break from work” you retort and they laugh. </p><p>“What’s new with you?” JJ asks, being the only one looking better than any of them. “Do you live in DC.?” </p><p>You nod. “I do.” </p><p>They share a look.  </p><p>Fuck, <em>okay</em> that’s going to continue the entire night so you decide to give a resume of your life. </p><p>You start with your name and new surname – clarifying that you’d shed the Anderson surname – then the new job, then the fact you’d been living in DC for a year now, and that you showed up today because a young police officer wanted to question you. </p><p>They’re all wide-eyed and speechless for a few seconds. </p><p>“New mission,” Penelope says all of a sudden, “for the next hours we lighten up <em> your </em> mood.” </p><p>You chuckle. “I don’t need my mood to change.” </p><p>She shares a look with Agent Morgan, who shakes his head in turn.  </p><p>“For starters, you shouldn’t follow our cue since we’re on the clock.” </p><p>At your raised eyebrow, she points at your empty glass. “Alcohol, my dear.” </p><p>Agent Prentiss motions at a waiter, beckoning him to your table. </p><p>“What do you say?” </p><p>They wait for a sign from you: that you’re uncomfortable or opposing to this. But you’re not because it’s the first time they’re treating you like an equal – not someone who can help, or a person they have to guide, or like you’re hiding something – and you do need a distraction. If not from your father, then from Hotch. </p><p>And honestly? You’re curious to what they’re planning. If your father heading to prison is as easy as they say, you’ll celebrate early and right now. While they’re here. And while you’re surrounded by people who’ve already saved your life twice already. </p><p>“I’ll take a shot actually.” </p><p>Then a wild idea pops in your head. If they’ll focus their energies in making you calmer then you should do the same with them – you jump up from your seat, pulling the waiter away from the table. You whisper at him your idea, shoving a 100-dollar bill in his open palm: shots in black glasses, from which you cannot see what you’re drinking. He nods, and you return to your seat. </p><p>“What were you thinking, Penelope?” </p><p>They don’t ask about your interaction with the waiter, assuming it’s just a simple order. </p><p>“A drinking game.” </p><p>“We are not playing never have I ever, Pen” Agent Prentiss says immediately. “Not again.” </p><p>“Or paranoia” Agent Rossi adds.  </p><p>The group laughs, knowing something you don’t. Perhaps lessons learned from playing both those games. </p><p>“Two truths and a lie, then?” </p><p>You shake your head. “You guys aren’t drinking so it will be just me drinking for everyone.” </p><p>“What do you propose, then?” JJ asks. </p><p>Just in time, the waiter is back with a large tray, carrying 7 shot glasses, and three for you – alcoholic. </p><p>Agent Reid opens his mouth to protest. </p><p>“Non-alcoholic, ma’am.” the waiter confirms aloud to all of them. Agent Reid and Morgan look visibly relieved, then turn to you as the waiter places the three other shots in front of you. </p><p>“I was thinking we turn it up a notch. The drinks in front of you are either different kinds of sodas, water, fruit juice, or fat.” </p><p>“What?” Agent Reid asks, staring at the black shot glasses. “Fat?” </p><p>“Yes. We play Penelope’s game. If you find out the truth – then you drink the glass in front of you, and hope it’s not fat.” </p><p>Agent Prentiss winces. “I’m not drinking fat.” </p><p>“High stakes” Agent Rossi says with a smile. “Quite creative even though we have to stay sober.” </p><p>“I take three chances because...”  </p><p> Because you want to get black out drunk if possible and forget you even have a father. </p><p>“I’m in” Agent Morgan says, taking you aback by being the first to accept. </p><p>“Me too” JJ jumps in. “It will be fun defeating profilers at their own game.” </p><p>Agent Prentiss laughs too, even though she still looks skeptical. “Fuck, I <em>do </em>want to play.” </p><p>“Count me in” Agent Rossi says.  </p><p>Agent Reid and Penelope nod as well, and that makes full circle.  </p><p>Then you halt, remembering how much time has lapsed before seeing them all again. That’s your advantage for tonight. </p><p>“Let’s make it <em>two lies and a truth</em>.” </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>Agent Reid sputters the liquid from his mouth as soon as he tips his shot glass to his lips. Luckily, he’d turned before doing so – everything shooting towards the ground at the side of his feet. The roar of laughter that ensues is raucous. </p><p>“That was egg yolk!” he yells and points a finger at you. You raise both hands up in surrender. </p><p>“You didn’t say anything about egg yolk!” </p><p>Wrapping your arms around your stomach, you double in laughter.  </p><p>“Egg yolk!” Agent Prentiss teases, mocking his reaction. “People drink that! Even normally” </p><p>“Who drinks that?” Agent Reid asks, voice breaking and his wide eyes peer at you again in offense, “Who in their right mind drinks raw egg yolk?” </p><p>Agent Morgan slaps a hand over his back, sending the poor kid forward, his front hits the table, making it all wobble and the drinks shake. </p><p>“Let it go, man. It’s just egg yolk. At least it’s not fat.” he says, eyes crinkled while he laughs. </p><p>With the way everyone laughs and talks louder than anything else in the bar – it looks like you’re<em> all</em> drunk. </p><p>“Professional athletes, Spence” JJ answers for him. “They drink it for protein. It’s said to be a good hangover solution too.” </p><p>“That’s not scientifically correct!” he doesn’t let up. “Foods and beverages containing greater amounts of zinc and B vitamins are proven to be good hangover remedies. As well as carbohydrates but never protein -” </p><p>“Okay!” Agent Morgan cuts him off, his hand reaching up to ruffle his hair, “who’s next?” </p><p>Agent Rossi, who is at JJ’s right, is supposed to follow since the order around the table has been clock-wise. </p><p>“I don’t want to play anymore. I am not fond of surprises. And some of us are not taking this game seriously” he shoots you a look and you bite your lip, looking down at your remaining shot. The need to be drunk surpasses the need to win this game, so you’ve been throwing out stupid answers.  </p><p>“Come on, old man” Agent Morgan reprimands with a shit-eating grin. “You’re not backing down now, are you?” </p><p>“I’ll make the statements for him” Agent Prentiss interrupts. The older agent narrows his eyes at her, daring her to. </p><p>“I can help” Agent Morgan says, and they both share a look with another, both erupting in laughter at once. There’s been a lot of inside jokes thrown around but you don’t mind. Not when they look nothing like an hour and some ago – exhausted and less-than-excited to be around people. </p><p>But even without knowing them too much, you can tell that both of them are the troublesome kids – if the BAU is like a big family. </p><p>“First off: I’ve been married seven times.” Agent Prentiss says, and you roll your eyes. That’s a blatant lie, unless something has drastically changed. </p><p>Agent Reid jumps in, “I do<em> not  </em>enjoy fame and money.” </p><p>Scratch that: three troublesome kids.</p><p>You all laugh, hearing the pettiness in his statement. </p><p>“And lastly” Agent Morgan picks up, “I wouldn’t mind marrying somebody who’s sitting around this table.” </p><p>The three of them try their hardest to stifle the laughter. Agent Rossi leans back in his chair, crosses his arms before his chest, and shakes his head, like a disappointed parent. </p><p>You look around them all – was someone here having an affair? You stifle your laugh too by the ridiculousness of it. There’s no way they’d be anything<em> but</em> professional. </p><p>Penelope at your side lets out a defeated sigh with a thousand-yard stare. “It’s me, isn’t it?” </p><p>Agent Rossi snaps his eyes at her, looking at her shocked as the entire table goes quiet. </p><p>A second later, chaos ensues as you all dissolve in laughter and giggles. Agent Morgan’s head is thrown back, slapping the table with a hand; Agent Prentiss is holding her sides; Reid is doubled up, as is JJ; Agent Rossi shakes with laugher, and Penelope is in stitches. </p><p>It takes more than a minute for everyone to regain their composure again, but when they do, you’re quick to jump in. Because you want to drink that last shot, already. Every once in a while, your mind decides to remind you of your father being out. </p><p>“Penelope is grounded. We skip her.” Agent Morgan says, and raises a hand for you to take the floor, even as Penelope lets out a whine of protest.  </p><p>You clear your throat, having thought since the start about the facts you will voice aloud. </p><p>“Okay, okay” you say, brushing away the tears of laughter from your eyes. “First one: I have a boating license.” </p><p>They nod, pensive already. You’re rich, and had been an Anderson for a short while. Nathan had owned his own boat and yacht too.</p><p>“I live pay check to pay check now.” </p><p>They all know your plans to donate all the riches Nathan had left you in his will. </p><p>“And last,” you glance around the table, knowing the last statement will throw them off the loop. </p><p>“I’m married again.” </p><p>Which would explain the new surname – <em>would</em>. </p><p>They turn to look at each other, not knowing what could possibly be a true statement. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched for you to get married this quickly, not when you’d done it once with Nathan. And it’s been two years. Anything can happen in two years. </p><p>“Now I’m realizing we should have a set a time limit for the guess work” you say, voice over-confident. It wouldn’t be<em> too </em>bad if you actually win this silly little game whose sole purpose had been to relax you.  </p><p>“Come on, guys. Just pick one and run with it.” </p><p>You look at Agent Rossi, whose eyes twinkle with amusement again. Then, Agent Reid, who’s gone deadly quiet. And, Penelope. She doesn’t meet your eyes. In fact – you look at JJ, Prentiss, Morgan – none of them do. They stare your way but their necks are craned upwards as if staring at someone taller. </p><p>“They’re non-alcoholic" Agent Rossi says, gaze kept on the same blind point he sees over your head. “It’s a fun, non-committal game.” </p><p>You look at him quizzically. Why is he narrating the game? </p><p>“Yes, I caught that part.” a low familiar voice deadpans, close to your back. </p><p>Your heart lurches forward, mind blanking out, and breath being violently stolen from your lungs.  </p><p><em> Hotch is here.  </em> </p><p>In fact, he’s right behind you with the way everyone quiets down at once, smiles wiping off their faces. You feel the same way as them. You don’t dare turn around and face him – you don’t have it in you anymore.  </p><p>You’d forgotten all about<em> the plan</em>. All the stupid trials of this week just so you can casually run into him, wanting to get closure. Your new friends – Clara and Kai – and even Therese had all urged you to seek him out, and meet him again.  </p><p>Nobody thought about someone for two whole years, without ever moving on. Nobody got stuck on a heartbreak for as long as you have done.  </p><p>“Hotch, is there any update?” Agent Morgan speaks up, back to resuming his profiler mind-set.  </p><p>“Not yet” he answers, keeping it curt.  </p><p>Is it because you’re here and he still doesn’t trust you to discuss so openly? Or because you’re a civilian? </p><p>“Come on” Agent Rossi waves a hand, while Agent Morgan stands up from his seat and pulls a chair for Hotch. You freeze, waiting. </p><p>He circles the table, coming to stand between Penelope and Agent Rossi, and right in front of you. You look up, his height and statuesque frame making your mouth go dry. You stand there, trying to remain still. You don’t want to fidget too much or breathe too hard. You’re hyper aware of him, and afraid he can tell. </p><p>“Should we get you a drink, Hotch?” </p><p>“That’s okay” he says and you finally look at him. </p><p><em> Fuck, </em>he is handsome.  </p><p>Hair cut short, closer to his scalp, wearing a dark button-up, loose at his collar and rolled up to his elbows. And his face seems more cut – all sharp edges and firm lines. He’s thinner and more mature, more stern-looking and serious than those years ago. He looks disgruntled – from your game perhaps? The attempts to make the team laugh? For certain, he isn’t pleased to see them all in a bar and not trying to sleep the tiredness away.  </p><p>The veins of his forearms pull and stretch tight as he leans both elbows over the table and you suck in a breath, feeling lightweight. He’s been working out too, apparently.  </p><p>After two whole years, all that time spent of having him live inside your head, your body still warms whenever he’s close. </p><p>You cross your arms over your chest, trying to dull the thud of your fickle heart. You shouldn’t want to be near him again. Not after he’d told you to disappear two years ago. Not after that threat he’d left you with.  </p><p>You bring your hand up to your neck, playing absent-mindedly with the ends of your hair.  </p><p>Hotch’s eyes go to it immediately. He chose to sit down away from you – methodically, as if he can’t bear the sight of you pressed so close, or as if he can’t live with the possibility of accidentally touching you. </p><p>The table is silent and solemn for a moment, and you hate that he’s brought seriousness to it. Nobody speaks, waiting for you or him to start instead to cut the tension that settles. </p><p>“I think you’ve definitely taken a yacht or boat out to sea.” Hotch says all of the sudden. You look up in surprise.  </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“Boat” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m betting on the boating license.” </p><p>You meet his eyes and reach for the glass in front of Agent Morgan and slam it in front of him. </p><p>“Care to bet for real?” </p><p>He looks at the glass then back at you. </p><p>“No. I’m not playing.” </p><p>The rest of the table tries to follow.  </p><p>You let out a laugh at his statement. Of course, he’s not willing to risk it all. When has he ever been? </p><p>“Where are you staying?” he asks, not letting the moment become awkward. </p><p>“Here in DC” you answer. Gripping the glass knuckle-tight, you take a big gulp of your drink, feeling like he’s looking at you.  </p><p>You don’t look up to see his reaction to that. Disappointment or surprise – you’re not curious at all.  </p><p>But you can’t stand the silence either. Resting your chin on your palm, elbow propped up over the table, you glance at him.</p><p>“You should reconsider. It’s two lies and a truth.” </p><p>Hotch has his eyes already set on you. But he doesn’t deign you with a response.  </p><p>He'd heard your statements from before. Does he think you’re married – thus the silent treatment? </p><p>You don’t hide the fact your eyes go to his left hand to see if his wedding band is back on. It isn’t and the breath of relief you let out is loud enough to hear. </p><p>Hotch turns to say something to Agent Rossi in a hushed voice - something concerning the case you assume. </p><p>You turn to stare at the people dancing, the slight warmth of the crowded bar making your hair stick to your neck, and your white shirt cling to the sweaty skin of your chest and back, and you feel the pull of him right there, inches away. </p><p>“I don’t want to cut on your relaxing time” He says then, pushing himself away and off the table. “I’m going to get a drink” </p><p>Hotch walks over to the counter, and talks to the bartender. The man nods and hands him what appears to be a whiskey on the rocks but he doesn’t return to the table. He sits down on the counter, back to all of you. The others have been adamant in staying sober for the case, yet there he is. Seemingly determined to finish that drink in his hand. </p><p>But you’re the only one who takes notice as the chatter around you starts again like normal. </p><p>Just then, a young woman takes the seat on the other side of him, assuming he’s here alone. Hotch tilts his head around to greet her, and she tucks her hair behind her ear, light blush appearing on her cheeks.  </p><p>You shoot out of your seat.  </p><p>“I’m going to get some water” </p><p>You jump up and make your way to the DJ who’s been spinning music all night – not bearing the red-hot feeling of jealousy that takes hold inside your chest. </p><p>Even though the place is crowded you can still feel Hotch’s eyes on you, like a steady presence on the back of your head.  </p><p><em> Closure </em> – you repeat to yourself. That’s what you’re here seeking.  </p><p>What a good fucking excuse just to see him again.  </p><p>Hotch nods at whatever the woman is saying, looking like he’s just indulging her. Until she leans down, and his eyes flash to you for a brief moment, before he gets closer to her.  </p><p>Your face and neck heat up, and you spin back around, telling the DJ your request. </p><p><em> Fucking asshole. </em> </p><p>Even now with years passed without seeing each other he’s testing you. And maybe you had expectations about how this night would go, but you’re still not going to watch him take home some woman.  </p><p>Not right here, not in front of you. You are done pretending like shit doesn’t bother you and acting like you don’t care about him. Is this what this is for him – trying to get you as angry as he can? </p><p><em> You’re mad and you’re not hiding it. </em> </p><p>Downing the rest of your drink, you slide on the barstool, the one closest to him. The woman jumps, noticing you for the first time. You sit down, cross your legs and fold your hands, laying them on the counter.  </p><p>Ignoring the woman and the greeting she directs your way, you stare at Hotch. You cock your head, holding his amused gaze.  </p><p>“Can I get a gin and tonic?” you ask the bartender, without breaking the eye contact. </p><p>The uncomfortable silence thickens, and the more you hold your ground, challenging him, not letting any emotions show, the more you feel stronger and like yourself. </p><p>Your chest rises and falls, heat falling down your neck as the storm inside your stomach dissipates into liquid warmth and pools between your thighs. </p><p>Your stomach aches with a familiar feeling, and your clothes suddenly feel too tight, too constricting. <em>Fuck. </em>   </p><p>“Well...” the woman says, touching his shoulder, “it was nice to see you again, Aaron. It would be great to run into you again.” </p><p><em>Womanizer </em>by Britney Spears starts playing and you smirk.</p><p>But Hotch ignores her, still looking at you. You try not to let it get to you – that she’s already on a first-name basis with him, while you’ve only called him that once.  </p><p>He clears his throat. “That's your song?” </p><p>You nod, stifling a smile. The bartender pushes your drink towards you. </p><p>“Yes, I thought it would suit you well, <em>Aaron.” </em> </p><p>Hotch drops his eyes, shakes his head and a laugh escapes him at the ridiculousness of it all. The woman looks from him to you, then the song playing overhead makes the connection for her. She turns around and leaves, taking it as a sign. </p><p>Hotch locks eyes with you again. The simple act makes your body rush with heat. It’s dumb but standing up to him in this juvenile way feels surprisingly good. </p><p>“Why did you not arrive earlier?” You ask softly. “Agent Rossi says you all take a break.” </p><p>“I had to coordinate the police forces” he admits. “and give them specific directions on what to do in case Davis Finch shows up earlier than predicted.” </p><p>You cut through the chase, asking the one thing that has been haunting you. “Why didn’t you tell them the truth?” you blurt out. He’d kept your confession a secret. </p><p>But he doesn’t reply. He leans back on his seat, rests his elbows on the counter, and looks out to the many people dancing.  </p><p>“Your song is a success” he says, ignoring your sigh of disappointment at the way he ignores your question. </p><p>You swivel your chair around to see better. “Yes, it’s a timeless classic.” </p><p>Your eyes go to a couple dancing close to one another. The girl seems to be screaming the lyrics at the guy’s face even though he smiles awkwardly through it all.  </p><p>“Now, she’s caught him talking to other girls countless times.” you say aloud, and he turns to look at you, realizing what you’re doing. If he refuses to play the game at the table, you'll make up another one, just so he can have a break from work too. “Probably even scrolled through his phone but has no guts yet to confront him. So, she does it now” </p><p>Hotch snickers, casts you a glance before taking a drink of his whiskey, and takes the lead and nods to someone else. The group of girls singing together while jumping up and down. </p><p>“What's your opinion on them?” </p><p>You inhale a breath, trying to relax. </p><p>“Oh, they’re all single” They’re barely twenty-one and drinking shots and already on wobbly feet.  </p><p>“It’s girl’s night” you toss out at Hotch. “Just got out of classes, and they’ve been crushing on the popular jocks at college that won’t pay them any mind.” You meet Hotch’s eyes. “it’s an empowering song too.” </p><p>“Him” he says, pointing at a businessman sitting at a booth in front of a younger man, with blonde hair and pierced ears. Neither of them is dancing but the younger man’s foot bops to the beat of the song. </p><p>You roll your eyes. “Affair”  </p><p>Hotch laughs, dimples popping up and high cheekbones making an appearance at the wide grin splitting his face. It renders you breathless for a second. </p><p>“The older man is the one with all the power in the relationship.” </p><p>You look down, feeling for him now.  </p><p><em> God</em>, what the fuck are you doing here? Playing games like a teen with the one man who's been stuck in your head for two years.  </p><p>And even though you enjoy the easy push and pull being dusted off, and the familiarity that blankets you both even with the time passed – you know it will cross to dangerous territory soon enough.  </p><p>Hotch goes on, jerks his chin to a group of men in suits, circling a table. None of them moves or sings, avoiding eye contact. </p><p>You smile. “Oh, they’re <em>raging </em>Britney Spears fans. Their machismo stops them from admitting it aloud. I promise you.” </p><p>His chest shakes laughing. “And her?”  </p><p>You look at where he nods – a young woman at the bar, and you catch a flash of her thigh peeking from the split of her medium-length dress. She’s drinking a mojito from a thin short straw, and she’s beautiful. </p><p>You can’t help but laugh as you turn to Hotch again. “She’s<em> the</em> womanizer” </p><p>He chokes on his whiskey, a drop of it spilling out of his mouth as he tries not to laugh. </p><p>You pick up your glass but don’t bother to drink. You don’t feel anything from the drinks consumed around the table and for some reason you don’t need alcohol anymore to face Hotch. Your body feels warm. And despite everything you’re relaxed and you feel something building in your gut. </p><p>Something hot that makes you hold your ground. </p><p>Hotch leans closer to you, voice turning low and husky. “What about you?” </p><p>You swallow thick, looking down at your glass.  </p><p>“I’m an avid Britney fan” you say, still unable to meet his eyes. </p><p>He remains still before finally sitting back and tipping his drink up to his lips. There are butterflies swarming violently in your stomach, and you try to keep your breathing even. </p><p>“And I don’t do casual. I haven’t been able to since two years ago” you pause, exhaling from your mouth slow breaths, despite the drumming of your heart. “You’re the only one who’s touched me since Nathan.”  </p><p>You feel peace with your admission, and you look up to him as you continue.</p><p>“You’re the only one.” <br/>His eyes hold yours, a hint of the pain you‘ve felt with longing for him for all these years, flashing behind them.  </p><p>“I haven’t been with anyone since.” </p><p>You don’t know what he’s thinking – but now <em>he knows</em>. </p><p>You’d swallowed it down, hid it and pushed him away back then – but now you’re owning up to it, and you don’t care. You’re not hiding the vulnerability anymore, and you’re not scared of it. </p><p>For the first time in your life,<em> you’re not scared. </em> </p><p>You lean over, fingers brushing his as you take the glass from his hands and swipe his drink, then slam it down. The burn in your throat is barely there, not when all you feel is adrenaline. </p><p>“I’m going home” you state aloud, turning to look at the BAU table. They swivel around, trying to hide the fact they’ve been staring all this time. </p><p>You get up, and leave the bar, knowing somehow that his answer will be in the act of him following you or not. </p><p>Passing the table is inevitable, not when it’s so close to the door. </p><p>“What’s the truth?” JJ asks aloud, making you halt. You feel the heat of Hotch’s presence behind you as his smell engulfs you. </p><p>“The boating license, of course” you breathe out. "I took my mother's maiden name. I' not a millionaire but I own a restaurant with a friend now, so I'm not doing so bad."</p><p>The others laugh, eyes darting from you to Hotch, who stands a good respectable distance between. You owe them an explanation, at least. You can’t leave without one when they’ve been trying all evening to make you relax.  </p><p>“Uh...” but nothing factual comes to mind so you lie. “I’m going to a friend’s place. She’s sad and needs me. Thanks for the night.” </p><p>“Oh, invite her too!” Penelope chimes in gleefully. JJ shakes her head, trying to garner her attention with facial expressions. </p><p>“We could cheer her up too! And we’ll switch to another game, perhaps -” </p><p>“See you tomorrow, Aaron.” Agent Rossi interrupts her, raising his glass of whiskey to Hotch.  </p><p>Your cheeks flush with his insinuation, and you look down at your feet, and through the last words of the group – <em>Hotch is the friend, Pen! How can you not get that? -  </em>you hurry out the door. </p><p>It slams shut behind you, and you march away from the windows and the door, so they cannot see you anymore. </p><p>The door opens and closes again and your heart thumps loudly in your chest, while you wait in agony for the sound of his footsteps. </p><p>Hotch stops beside you. He glances your way, holds your gaze and takes out his car keys. His arm brushes yours, shooting a jolt of electricity up your spine. </p><p>----- </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks as always for reading!!💕💕💕<br/>as alwaysss lemme know what you think!!</p><p>(next chapter is already written so u wont wait long!)<br/>was going for that tension-filled moment between 2 peops in this chapter, hope that came thru! (if not lemme know lmao, bcs next chapter is gonna be heavy on it)</p><p>Yall kno what headspace Hotch is at in season 5 (aka 2 years later from s3) 👀</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. midnight love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Meeting Hotch after such a long time feels like a fever dream. A torturous, long, fever dream.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: spice? check 😌<br/>(i really think i pushed myself with the spice of this one, so i hope to god its natural lmao)<br/>sry for the length (again!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The drive is long and spent without speaking. There’s low music playing from his stereo, and the night is quiet with no traffic, and with bright brilliant stars visible up head. Your eyelids are heavy because you haven’t been sleeping well ever since the news about your father broke out. </p><p>You don’t know if Hotch’s ready yet – to forgive you, to bypass all the lies and secrets, and to want you again. But <em>you want him</em>. The smell of him – sharp and sweet like the cologne he wears, and something that is only him – that you’ve longed for and had memorized all these years. The sight of him. The feel of him...  </p><p>He hasn’t touched you but being near him like this is enough at the moment. Maybe you’re more vulnerable from the news of your father than anything else. But you don’t want to do anything else but be here, with him.  </p><p>The car slows down as you pull into a driveway leading to a large apartment building, shielded by trees and shrubs. You realize only now he never asked about your address and you never told him where to leave you. He pulls into a garage and a flutter courses through your belly. </p><p>“Your house?” </p><p>Hotch turns off the engine. “Yes. I hope you don’t mind. It’s nearer to the precinct and --” </p><p>“That’s perfectly okay” you cut him off. He could have called you a taxi, or even asked, and the bar Agent Rossi had taken you to wasn’t far away from your home. But <em>this </em>feels like something. </p><p>“I hope I’m not disturbing.” </p><p>He opens his door, smiling at you gently for understanding the urgency of his work. </p><p>“You won’t.” he assures. “I live alone.” </p><p>Not that you’d been fishing for another confirmation that he’s not back with his ex-wife, but it still calms you down. You climb out of the car and walk around to follow him into the building. You take the elevator up and he shoves his hands in his pockets, pushing the ends of his suit jacket behind him. </p><p>Under the fluorescent harsh lighting of the elevator, you notice just how tired and spent he looks. There’s a certain severity to his features that hadn’t been before. You don’t want to spend the time studying him, not when he now looks like the entire weight of the world is on his shoulders – but you can’t help it. </p><p>The elevator dings, signaling your exit.  </p><p>Hotch goes out first, house keys clinking together as they dangle from his fingers. He stops in front of a door and you close your eyes, feeling unprepared for this. He unlocks, opens it and there’s a beeping sound that goes off immediately. It makes you open your eyes, shattering the fantasy you’d once dreamed of, a long time ago. </p><p>“Wait there” he orders. He crosses the threshold and takes another step until he’s facing an alarm system. He inputs numbers and the sound stops. </p><p>“Come in”  </p><p>You do, running on automatic. He reaches over, stretching an arm to close the door behind you – brushing against you, warm breath fanning over your shoulder, that sends a shiver down your spine – and returns to press more buttons. It’s not that you’re surprised he has an alarm system. But it’s the fact that it’s the first time he’s touched you inside his apartment.  </p><p><em> His apartment</em>, you realize. </p><p>Hotch switches the lights on, and your eyes go immediately to your surroundings. The place smells nice but strong and pungent – of coffee and faint cologne. The furniture is dark and polished, expensive wood. The walls – bare and with little to no photos – and even the black leather couches too, they all give a very masculine feel to the environment. He leads you to the kitchen and you trail behind, keeping your eyes glued to the floor, to not step over any kid’s toys.  </p><p>There aren’t any.  </p><p>“Would you like something to drink? Or eat?” </p><p>He has a kid – you know he does, and he’s what, 5 years old now? Is he that much of a neat freak that nothing escapes him? </p><p>The fridge opens and he takes out peanut butter and jelly, dropping the jars to the kitchen counter.  </p><p>You look at him confused, then realize he’s asked you something. </p><p>“Oh. That’s okay. Thanks” </p><p>He stops midway as he opens a bag with a loaf of bread. Maybe you <em>are</em> hungry.  </p><p>“Actually, I do want something to eat. Thanks.”  </p><p>He resumes, taking out a plate as you plant yourself over a kitchen stool.  </p><p>“I don’t like peanut butter though.” </p><p>He nods, like he’s obeying demands. </p><p>“And I want it toasted.” You say with a small smile.  </p><p>He shoots you an amused look, resembling for a moment the man he’d been two years ago – the one who insisted a few times to make you breakfast the morning after. </p><p>You take the opportunity to roam your eyes around. There’s fancy art decorating the place, and the rich scent of polish is felt all around. It’s an effort to memorize everything you can of his space, not when you don’t think you’ll ever get a chance to do so again. And it’s an attempt to not stare at him with no reservation – like you so much desire. </p><p>“How much time do you have?” you ask, cutting the silence. The others had said 4 hours before the next shift, and you’re sure it’s less than one before they have to go back.  </p><p>“Rossi and Morgan are in charge” he answers. “I’ll be notified when they catch sight of him” </p><p>He pushes a plate with two toasted slices of bread, coated thick with butter and strawberry jam. He’s fitted also fruits – few grapes, blackberries, and cherries too – at the side. You hold in a laugh when he pushes also a juice box your way.  </p><p>He’s preparing a PB&amp;J for himself but doesn’t sit down when it’s done. You raise your eyebrows when you see he doesn’t have a juice box for himself. </p><p>“Pity” you let out. “was looking forward to seeing you drink from a small straw” </p><p>Hotch takes a bite of his sandwich. “I don’t intend to give anyone the privilege of that sight.” </p><p>You take a bite of yours, popping a few grapes in your mouth. </p><p>An easy laugh bubbles out of your throat, and your chest warms at the gesture of him making food for you. Even something as simple as this.  </p><p>But even smiling feels precarious. Tonight, you’d seen how tight-knit the team is with one another and you’d forced him to lie to them all. You hadn’t even thought of the consequences of him lying for you. </p><p>“You must have been so....” you start, almost choking up “I made you keep secrets from your team. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Don’t apologize for something you don’t regret.” He says, taking you by surprise. </p><p>You don’t know how to respond to that because it’s true. Killing Nathan was something you’d do again if given the chance again. Maybe you’d have even done it earlier.  </p><p>Hotch places his plate down. “You asked me once what happened to Elle” </p><p>You cross your arms, feeling confused by his sudden change of topic. </p><p>“There was a case, years ago, of a serial rapist and home-invader.” he says, pensive, ”we didn’t have the necessary intel to arrest him, but we knew who it was from the profile we compiled on him. Elle agreed to go undercover and wait for him inside a house, while the police and everyone else kept a tight surveillance.” </p><p>You take in a breath – he'd brushed off your question back then, saying she couldn’t digest the severity of the crimes anymore. </p><p>“Before that case, there was another one of an unsub who targeted the team.” </p><p>You furrow your eyebrows, worry seeping through your expression. </p><p>“We spent nights awake, and he’d stated that nobody should leave the premises or let anyone else know. I ordered Elle to head home and sleep. And he...” you don’t interrupt, not when he looks so torn and vulnerable, afraid you will break the momentum. “... he shot her inside her own home.” </p><p>You know she’s fine, but your heart breaks either way. </p><p>“She said it was all okay. The psychological evaluation said so too, but she wasn’t. I brushed it off even when she didn’t seem like herself. I thought it would pass. And then she blew up the undercover case. We didn’t have proof to arrest the unsub, so we let him go.” </p><p>He leans against the counter behind him, hands at his sides. The shadows playing across his face make him look more pained. </p><p>“She confronted him, and shot him. She said it was an act of self-defense but...” </p><p>He doesn’t have to finish that sentence.  </p><p>“And she quit” </p><p>Years ago, when the BAU had arrested your father, you’d gotten to know Elle for a brief moment. She had been driven, snarky, and intense. And she’d mentioned that she’d dreamt about joining the BAU because she knew they’d get the dangerous men girls are scared of.  </p><p>“Years ago – Spencer was held hostage, drugged and tortured – while we all saw. We caught the unsub on time.” </p><p>His knuckles go white as he grips the sides of the counter behind, head dropped low as he looks at his feet. </p><p>“But he lost his bearings. He was faded and could barely hold focus for a long period of time.” </p><p>You know what those signs mean – you'd seen them on your father too when you were a child and he was at home: substance abuse. </p><p>“I ignored the signs again” He murmurs. “I did that two times. I ignored the people I spend more time with in my life – more than my family – because I didn’t think it was my place to get involved.” </p><p>“Agent Reid looks okay, now” you mutter, trying to offer him some kind of comfort. </p><p>He looks up, “It’s not because of me.” </p><p>“Hotch, what could you have done -” </p><p>But he cuts you off. “<em> More </em>” he says through his teeth. “I could have done more.” </p><p>You hold your breath, struck by the way he holds your gaze – with more intensity and unabashedly, different than in the bar. </p><p>“I couldn’t do the same to you.” he lets out. “You did what you had to do.” </p><p>An ache weaves its way through your chest. </p><p>“And I...” he stops himself, stares at you for a beat.  </p><p>Then. </p><p>“Nothing” he whispers, “there’s nothing else to say.” </p><p>He pushes himself off the counter and walks to the door “You can take my bedroom tonight.” </p><p>You shake your head, “No. That’s not necessary. I’ll sleep in the couch, Hotch. I don’t want to impose.” </p><p>“I invited you here” he says harshly. </p><p>Having to sleep in his bed? Feeling the imprint of his body on the mattress as you lie down – you don’t think you’d be able to do that and not combust immediately. </p><p>“I’m not going to sleep in <em> your bed  </em>-” you bite your tongue, desperation coming out with your voice.  </p><p>Hotch looks at you with something different in his eyes. </p><p>“There’s a guest room” he says softly, “but it’s on the other side of the house.” </p><p>“So?” you rebut. Why does he want you to be near to his room, so badly? </p><p>There must be something else he’s not saying with his mention of bad men and admission of past mistakes and guilt. He’s hiding something – it’s obvious when he’s drinking on the job and looks more tortured than before. Maybe it’s the job, or the things he must have seen that are eating at him. You don’t insist. </p><p>“What about the couch here then?” You push through, walking into the living room. </p><p>You turn around to face him. “Where’s your bedroom?” </p><p>He follows you, and nods to the door on the left of the corridor, on the other side of the kitchen. </p><p>“It’s good enough for me.” you say with challenge in your eyes. If he wants you closer then he has to say it. “Is it for you?” </p><p>“Yes” he says, voice strained. He huffs out in defeat. “It’s fine” </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>Hotch gives you a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in and it’s the worst thing that has ever happened to you. He might as well just hug you instead, when his clothes smell like him.  </p><p>He’s barricaded himself in his bedroom – door left open – after he’d given you the change of clothes and bid you goodnight. You think you imagine the faint soft tapping coming from his room as if he’s still working on his laptop or scribbling over papers. There’s a blanket and pillows on the couch, and you toss and turn, unable to sleep.  </p><p>Being here in his house feels surreal. Hotch almost saying he doesn’t blame you for Nathan is surreal. And even though there’s a comfort within you that hasn’t been there before, you still can’t sleep. And although you appreciate the fact, he’s brought you over to his house to keep you safe, there are quite a lot of things none of you addressed – such as your confession from two years ago, or at the bar. But for the moment it does not feel like a pressing or urgent matter. </p><p>The strings of the shorts do nothing to tighten the waistband around your waist when they’re too big for you. They keep falling off your legs, and leaving indents on your back and stomach. You resign, taking them off under the covers and tossing them to the sofa. You make a note to wake up early so you can look presentable.  </p><p>You check your phone, light flashing bright in the dark of the entire house as you read the messages from Clara and Kai. You’d told your new friends about your past this time – not about what you had to do with Nathan, but they’d followed the trial and heard the news. And they knew about Davis Finch. And about Hotch, who is, for the first time in two years, so close to you, he doesn’t feel like a ghost anymore. </p><p><em> Text me after you see him</em> – Clara had written. And you send a text back, innocuous and vague: <em>I will. </em> </p><p>The clock of the phone tells you it’s 2 am – an hour after you’d left the bar with Hotch. You stare up at the ceiling. He feels different somehow. Not just because of that flash of vulnerability he showed in the kitchen, but from the way he keeps his house too. </p><p>You’d learned to study your surroundings as a child fleeing from your father’s outbursts – to note the exits, read the red flags, see if a certain space is safe and inhabited by kids and women. With the way he’d talked about Jack years ago, you’d thought the space would look like a kid’s paradise, with toys and bright, beautiful painted walls. Maybe even with more drawings and fun and soft pillows. You don’t want to make an assumption – he doesn’t deserve it when he’s welcomed you inside his house. </p><p>But it feels like his son hasn’t been here for a long time. </p><p>You push the blanket off, feeling restless and stride barefoot to the kitchen. The alcohol from tonight has done nothing but make you more conscious of everything. </p><p>You open the fridge, and your eyes widen. </p><p>There’s a lot of frozen foods and vegetables. Apart from the fruits he served earlier, there’s nothing else healthy or fresh. And not anymore juice boxes. You know nothing about how divorced parents live – and you know that this must be hard for Hotch. And yet, there’s something else that gnaws at you. </p><p>You shut the door, and pick up a glass to fill it with water at the sink. </p><p>You’re lost in thought, drinking water, hoping with all your might that his ex-wife is still allowing him to see his child, when you hear a noise behind you. </p><p>You swivel around and the dark shadow at the door makes you jump. The glass falls from your grip, water sputtering down your neck, glass shattering all over the ground. </p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” you let out, and drop to your feet at once. “Hotch... honestly.” </p><p>He turns the lights on, “Sorry. I didn’t think you were real.” </p><p>You look up at him, heart jumping at his admission. </p><p>“I forgot you were --” But he stops talking. </p><p> “You<em> forgot</em> I was here?” </p><p>He kneels before you, and ignores your question. “Don’t bother. You’re going to cut your hands. I’ll clean it up” </p><p>You don’t budge, and pick up another piece of glass. </p><p>“I’m telling you I will clean it. God<em>...</em>” he grabs your hands, making you drop everything and pulls you off the ground as he kneels back down. “You’re stubborn.” </p><p>You flash him a cocky smile. “I learned from the best.”  </p><p>But your bravado vanishes when you see how close to him you are all of a sudden, and how he continues to hold your hands. Strong grip but still tender.  </p><p>You stop breathing. He pushes with his feet the shards away from you, not looking at you once. He’s wearing a white shirt, and check-patterned pajama pants. He looks so goddam gentle it makes your heart sick. </p><p>“Come on” Hotch says, standing up, “I’ll get a broom and -” </p><p>He finally looks at you and words die out, his mouth going dry. He's forgotten he caused you to spill a whole glass of water down your front and back, and the shirt he’d given you – a simple, worn-out but clean navy shirt – clings to your skin now, leaving little to the imagination. Water glistens across your chest – rising and falling still from the fright. The light he switched on doesn’t help either. He can see all of you: flushed cheeks, and curious eyes, regarding him the same way you’d done years ago, like nothing has changed, and the little restraint he’d gathered in the bar is gone now.  </p><p>He’d gone back to his old life. But it hadn’t been the same. Nine in the evenings he dropped Jack at Haley’s on sundays and he thought of you. Went to work and pretended like he was okay. Then home like he knew how to do anything. You lived only in his head, even slept in his bed. You were the first face he saw every night and every morning before waking up. And he didn’t know why. He rehashed memories of moments spent with you, of words spoken, and mannerisms. You lived in his daydreams with him. </p><p>Hotch had entered the bar tonight expecting to see them talking about the case again, like they always did – and not everyone cheering and laughing. He’d pinched himself, lost for a moment at the silhouette of you. And although he hadn’t seen you in a long time – he’d still recognize you. Even just from your back.  </p><p>He shakes his thoughts away. He knows how dangerous it is – to bring you here, in his own home, when his job had shipped his family away to an undisclosed location, all for their protection, not too long ago. And he’s being impulsive, taking it for granted that you’re safer here, where he can see and guard you, than anywhere else where your father can get to you. </p><p>He’s been powerless this entire night. Ever since he’d seen you again. </p><p>“Thanks for the cold shower” you mutter, pulling the hem of the shirt away from your skin, knowing how this all looks. </p><p>“Here” his brain starts working long enough for him to remember. He takes clean kitchen towels from the cupboard and hands them to you.  </p><p>“Great.” you mutter, not meeting his gaze, shy all of the sudden. </p><p>Hotch should turn, head back to his room and get you another shirt, but he’s frozen. All his mind does is repeat your words.  </p><p><em> He’s the only one. </em> </p><p>Why<em> did he </em>bring you to his house after hearing that sentence? </p><p>You pay no mind to him, or the inner turmoil he’s going through, but pad your neck with the towel, then turn around showing him your back.  </p><p>“Is my back wet too?” </p><p>Your hair is drenched, sticking to the nape of your neck, curled to the ends, and in between your shoulder blades. His gaze on you makes your blood start heating up under your skin. </p><p>“Yes” he says, barely audible. You hold out a towel over your shoulder and he takes it. </p><p>It’s needless, you both know it.  </p><p>His free hand reaches up, taking a few strands of hair between his fingers. It's only the ends of the hair, but you feel it tingle your scalp and you’re lightheaded.  </p><p>The towel touching your wet back is featherlight, soft, and barely there, and it does nothing but make the shirt stick to you more. He presses it to the nape of your neck, then trails a line along your spine, stopping at the end of your back. He’s quiet, and your heart is loud, throbbing at your ears. </p><p>You hold a breath, feeling like he’s looking at you for the first time, even though it isn’t. </p><p>At first, he sticks to the parts of your back where your shirt is wet. But then he uses it as a mean to touch you everywhere else – the towel like an invisible layer as the ghost of his fingertips press to your skin. His hand puts pressure along your curves, following the lines of your shoulders, going up to the back of your neck. He’s closer, the heat of his body like a furnace behind you. Then, the pad of his thumb, presses to the side of your neck, where you’d dried the water from before. It goes below, following the slope of your neck, spine again, and stops at your hips. His hand lingers there, as the other continues to knead your wet hair to the side. </p><p>Your eyes flutter closed as the pulse between your thighs starts to throb. </p><p>You hear a thud to your left, and look up to see the towel you’d handed him now thrown over the counter. His hand – no more barrier – grabs the hem of your shirt, dragging you to him, towering over you from behind. You breathe out, feeling nervous and excited. </p><p><em> Take it off, </em>you urge in your mind. <em>Please, do it. </em> </p><p>But he waits.  </p><p>“Why did you stop?” you croak out.  </p><p>You want him to <em>want you</em> – to want <em>this</em>, like you’d done for two whole <em>fucking </em> years. Rejection eats away at you again, because what if he was just being nice, bringing you here, keeping you under his guard as your father roams free. What if what you feel now is nothing but a strange wave of nostalgia? What if there’s nothing else left between you? Just memories, and secrets swept under the rug. </p><p>You’re scared. You’d opened up to him at the bar, and if he pushes you away this time – it's done. You’ll give up. </p><p>Feeling his form over your shoulder, you look to the side, sensing his hesitation. </p><p>He gulps. “It’s better if you change your shirt” he says, voice husky. </p><p>You smile to yourself, and reach down, grab the hem of the shirt and pull it over your head. The towel he threw away is right there, near your reach, but you don’t bother to cover yourself. </p><p>You don’t mind being vulnerable anymore, even as you stand bare before him, in nothing but your undergarments. It’s a only a moment and you fear you’ve broken the spell. But then his hands are over your shoulder blades, light and soft. </p><p>Excitement and anticipation run through you like a steady current of electricity under your skin.  </p><p>You hold out the other towel, curious what excuse he will play off this time. </p><p>“Just in case you forgot” you tease, over your shoulder. </p><p>Hotch doesn’t say anything, for fear his voice will betray his emotions. He takes the towel wordlessly, and continues on his path from before. </p><p>“You know...” you bite your lip, “I think I felt some water trickle down to my hips...” </p><p>You expect him to laugh at your wicked attempt to make him touch every inch of your skin. But he doesn’t. And you almost regret it as soon as his hand grabs the bare skin of your hip. </p><p><em> There’s no way you’re imagining thi</em>s.  </p><p>It’s like no time has passed between you two and he must feel it too – calloused and warm fingers pressing to your sides, making you shudder. </p><p><em> He has to feel it too</em>. </p><p>Turning around, you take the towel from his hand, drying the water that still lingers over your collarbones and under your jawline. </p><p>Hotch’s chest moves up and down in ragged breaths, lips parted, and emotions clear as day in his eyes.  </p><p>His gaze falls to your breasts, covered only by a lacy black bra. </p><p><em> No </em> – you're not imagining this. </p><p>You cock an eyebrow. “Why am I in your house, <em>Aaron</em>?” </p><p><em> Why are you holding back, </em>you want to ask.  </p><p>Hotch clears his throat, looking back into your eyes. “I wanted you to be safe.” </p><p><em> Touch me, </em>you urge him in your mind, <em>pleas</em><em>e. </em> </p><p>You shake your head, unsatisfied by his answer. “Why <em>am</em> I here?”  </p><p>Throwing the towel at your right, you reach for him now. Fingers of your left hand go up tentatively, and he allows you to cup his face, leaning into your touch. He twists his head, and brushes a kiss onto the heel of your palm. It makes your heart leap inside your ribcage. </p><p>Your other hand goes to his shirt, stopping to his chest, to where his body is toned and taut, hidden by the fabric. </p><p>He sucks in a sharp breath, straightening up, and pulls away. Your hands drop at your sides, feeling hurt, even as your heart pounds hard. </p><p>“I visited you in the hospital” he says all of the sudden. “I stayed by your bed until you woke up.” </p><p>You blink at him. “What?”  </p><p>You shake your head, taking a step back. <em>You can’t do this now. </em> </p><p>He grabs your hands. “Two years ago,” he says quietly, “I couldn’t leave. For two days I stayed put, sitting by the side of your bed, praying you’d open your eyes.” </p><p>Your eyes slowly fill with tears, stinging at the sincerity in his voice, and you're angry too. </p><p>“But you... I-I<em> didn’t</em> see you.” </p><p>“You didn’t because I was...” he shakes his head, his hands going up to hold your wrists instead, when he senses you pull away. </p><p>“A coward.” he breathes out. “I thought I was in too deep. Too over my head. And then you...” </p><p>Hotch stops, and searches your eyes for something. You see in his, the same feelings you’d been carrying with you all this time: longing, want, worry, and anger directed to one’s self. </p><p>He holds your eyes, his chest rising and falling from the deep breathing.  </p><p>“I haven’t stopped thinking about you once.” </p><p>He’d been by your bedside, waiting for you to wake up? And he tells you that now, <em>two </em>years later? </p><p>“<em>What the fuck? </em>” </p><p>Hotch flinches, not having expected that reaction. </p><p>You pull away, the tears in your eyes making your vision blurry. </p><p>Heartbroken – for two whole years. You’d been a mess and miserable for two whole <em>fucking </em>years because you’d been convinced you’d made a fool of yourself. Falling for the person investigating you. And scared because you didn’t know when he was going to tell people your secret and send you to prison. </p><p>“I want to leave” you breathe out shakily. His place, the sight of him, his hold on you – everything is too overwhelming.  </p><p>And what does it mean, <em>now? </em> </p><p>“Why the fuck did you bring me here?” you demand, voice louder. </p><p>You hear him swallow, and his jaw clenches. </p><p>“Because <em>I’m</em> being selfish” he says. His hands shift so they grip your hips instead. </p><p>You plant your hands on his chest, trying to keep the distance, knowing the more he touches you the less control you have over yourself. </p><p>“I thought you hated me” you let out, and hit him with your palm, “I thought I was going to wake up one day surrounded by police officers and I’d be sent to jail!” </p><p>He snakes his arms around your waist, loosening the hold on you so if you decide to part away from him you can but he still keeps you grounded against his chest. </p><p>“I thought you only...” but when you meet his eyes, the fight leaves you at once. “I thought I was <em>nobody</em> to you” </p><p>He shakes his head, and tugs you to his chest, your hips meeting his.  </p><p>“<em>I loved you </em>” he whispers softly, his breath fanning your lips. Your tears stop. </p><p>The confession makes you hold a breath, while your heart continues pounding loudly. The want for him overpowers everything else, and that’s all this night has been building up to. A hand of his stretches open, pressing at the small of your back, making you shudder. </p><p>“I missed you” Hotch says again, voice harsh and commanding, his other hand reaching up to cup your jaw between his thumb and fingers. “And you’re not going anywhere” </p><p>And then his lips crush down on yours, rendering you breathless at once. The taste and feel of him floods you so hard it makes you whimper, eyes fluttering closed. The adrenaline and heat you’d felt all this night have never left – they dive down from your neck to the end of your belly in a second.  </p><p>You pull back. “You’re a <em>fucking asshole </em>” but then you reach up, taking the back of his neck, your mouth covering his, demanding more, not caring about the urgency of your motions or the lack of air. You’re hot all over, even with barely any clothes left on.  </p><p>“<em>Christ... </em>” Hotch gasps, eyes closed, brows pinched together like he’s in agony. His hand holds your jaw, trailing kisses down your cheek, then your neck. You only crane it, giving him free rein, as you tug at his soft hair.  </p><p>“You taste better than I remember” Then his mouth covers yours again, kissing you deeper than before. </p><p>He feels so good. <em>Tastes</em> so good. His smell engulfs you once more, so distinct and <em>his</em> it makes your head cloudy. And it’s not the same as it had been before. He’d been too careful and soft handling you then. He grips your waist, fingers sliding under the silk strap of your underwear, his hand holding into the fabric like he’s going to rip it off any second now. His other hand on your jaw guides your movements to meet his as his tongue flicks in your mouth meeting yours, hot and demanding. He goes in for more and more. Again, and again. </p><p><em> No </em>  – he <em>is</em> different. And he’s holding back. You pull back to nibble at his bottom lip, feeling the ache between your legs grow as he moans against your mouth. His hand on your jaw sinks down to the side of your neck. </p><p>“<em>Aaron”  </em>you whimper, choosing to call him as you wish this time, not waiting for his request or guidance. His breathing speeds up, and the pad of his thumb grazes your bottom lip.  </p><p>“At night...” you try your damn hardest to keep your voice low and steady, eyeing him.  </p><p>“<em>Every</em> night” you correct, watching his chest rise and fall quicker, “I imagine your hands all over my body, touching me. I imagine you watching me come apart.” And you part your lips, keeping your eyes locked on him as you lower your head, taking his thumb inside your mouth. </p><p>He watches you transfixed, his hold on your waist growing stronger, almost painful, as your tongue swirls and licks his thumb in circular fluid motions, spit trickling down the side of your mouth.  </p><p>You let him go with a loud pop, a moan escaping as you do. He dives back in immediately, kissing your lips, drawing them in with his before parting away. There’s a flicker of something dark passing behind his eyes – a newfound hunger that’s been kept at bay for too long. It's only one single lock left. You open your mouth, searching for words. </p><p>Tingles swarm your face as he watches you with heat in his eyes. But you’re not going to be timid now, after everything. </p><p>“Show me how you missed me” you whisper, taunting him. You don’t know what you expect Hotch to do, not really. There’s a certain curiosity there though, mingled in with anticipation and curiosity, because it feels like you’re discovering each other again.  </p><p>Your hands drop to his shoulders, tightening once and you lean in to whisper close to his ear. “<em>Please </em>” </p><p>He exhales loudly, and he lets go of all restraint.  </p><p>Before you can blink, he drops to his knees – not minding the fact there’s shattered glass spread all around you two – and he grabs your leg from under your knee and hooks it over his shoulder, his hand ripping off the garment in one quick snap and his mouth <em>dives</em> fast and hard between your legs.   </p><p><em> Oh – fuck. “</em>Aaron” you cry out, eyes squeezing shut. </p><p>You fist the top of his hair, as he looks up you, taking in your labored breathing, and your hooded eyes.  </p><p>“Fuck” you choke out. “I forgot – <em>ah</em>.” You suck in air through your teeth. “<em>Oh, fuck.</em>.. Aaron. I forgot how good you were at this.” </p><p>It’s a crime in itself that he’d been around you so often back then and you’d done this –<em> not only</em>, specifically this – so few times.  </p><p>Your hips follow his fast movements, grinding against his mouth as the ache in your stomach builds deep. “Jesus, fuck” you whimper.  </p><p>Your moans grow louder with a <em>particular</em> flick of his hot tongue. </p><p>“You’re so beautiful” he whispers against your skin, looking up at you. “So soft and tight” And he plunges two fingers into you, making you cry out louder. </p><p>The cyclone low in your belly starts building up, and it’s not even been that long.  </p><p>“You taste so good, <em>baby. Let me hear you.</em>” he growls, and you pull on his head, feeling on the precipice, head dizzy from the emotions overflowing through every inch of you. </p><p><em> Fuck,</em> if he calls you baby again you might just... </p><p>“<em>Hotch </em> –!” you cry out. </p><p>It hits you like a volcano, erupting at once, every muscle in your body tensing up, but he continues riding you through it on that same pace. You try to catch your breath, heaving as everything starts to slowly fade. Hotch slows down with a few soft kisses and looks at you calmly, the fire in his eyes still strong. Your chest shakes, and he drops your leg down gently to the floor. But before he can get up, you lower yourself down, pulling him with you. He drops on the floor, sitting down on the white-tiled pavement, back bumping against the counter. </p><p>“What are you doing?” he asks surprised. You straddle him, knees on each side of his thighs. He doesn’t oppose it though, his hands run down your sides.  </p><p>“I’d rather we do this on my bed” he says, with a certain fight in his voice.  </p><p>One of your arms circles his neck, and your other hand reaches down into his pants. “I don’t give a shit about your bed” you breathe out against his lips, feeling him against you already.  </p><p>“I’m not waiting any longer.”</p><p>He watches you with amazement take control so easily, as you lean back, and slide into him. You place your hands on his shoulders for support. </p><p>A moan carves out of your throat at the first contact. “You can fuck me later on your bed” you breathe against his lips. </p><p>“Or on the couch.” you say, starting to move, soft but fast. “Or over your table. The carpet. Inside your home office.” </p><p>His hands go up, gripping tight the soft skin of your ass.  </p><p>“Or over this floor, again, until your tired old bones cannot go any longer.”  </p><p>That last comment drives him nuts, hands yanking off your bra and discarding it to the side.  </p><p>“What did you just say to me?” His hand go up, palming your breasts, harsh and bordering between pain and pleasure, making you whine and moan. He takes the reins, pulling your hips into his, going harder and harder, until the only sounds out of your mouth and echoing around in the room are your loud moans.  </p><p>“Not so mouthy, right now, are you?” </p><p>You shake your head, sucking your lower lip between your teeth. He leans down to kiss you lower than your collarbone, nibbling and licking as sweat prickles down your neck. You cry out, falling apart for a second time. He looks at you like he’s been entranced by a spell – watching every shake, every shiver, exhale and whimper. He’d missed it for too long. <em>Too much. </em> </p><p>-- </p><p><em> Two years had been a torture, not because the bar was the first </em><em>time </em><em>he’s seen you since that day outside of the courthouse. But because he’d sought you again and again. Hotch still kept tabs on you, unknowingly to everyone else. Garcia had long forgotten about her set-up to follow your every move from when you were a person of interest. Only after long drawn-out cases, when his mind was fizzled and his body sprung from exhaustion – those were the only moments he allowed himself to look for you.  </em> </p><p><em> You’d followed his words to a T. No articles. No news. No mention of you anywhere. It's like you’d disappeared off the radar completely. If it weren’t for the stupid GPS Garcia had planted on your phone he’d never known where you went. Seattle – New York – then, California for a short period.  </em> </p><p><em> Then, he’d forgotten that small device completely, feeling like he’d been investigating you again instead of letting you go on about your life. </em>That<em>, and caught by the fast pace of cases again. </em> </p><p><em> That was until a few months ago. </em>Actually <em>a few days </em><em>after he’d gotten out of the hospital, traumatized and barely keeping it together after the man with the black mask had invaded his house.  </em> </p><p><em> It was a summer’s day. Long hair plastered to your back from the heat and humidity, and you were smiling to someone – bright and all teeth – like nothing bad had ever happened to you. And you went back into a busy restaurant, never glancing back or feeling his eyes on you. </em> </p><p><em> His mind had been surely playing tricks on him. </em>Surely.  </p><p><em> Haley and Jack were somewhere far away in witness protection, and </em><em>Foyet</em><em> was somewhere god-knows-where, and he was slowly losing it.  </em> </p><p>Surely –<em> you were a mirage in the desert, reminding him to keep his mind straight. </em> </p><p><em> He tried to for a good long while – no whiskeys, no careless impulsive take-downs of unsubs, or springing into action mindlessly. Yet it started up again, because he missed Jack. And he hated himself for causing so much pain to Haley and uprooting her entire life. </em> </p><p>Until this night.  </p><p>---- </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck...” you let out, leaning down to kiss him open-mouthed and sloppy. “You should always rip my <em>fucking</em> clothes off.” </p><p>Hotch feels that same overwhelming feeling grow deeper inside him. It had never died down. He moves harder and faster until every muscle in his body burns. He breathes hard through it, taking every gentle kiss you plant over his lips. You stand like that for a while, until your breathing becomes quieter and slower, clinging into each other.</p><p>“<em>Goddamn you </em>” Climbing off him, you shake your head, holding his hand. “I’m here drenched and naked and you’re still wearing your clothes.” </p><p>He pulls himself off the floor, glass crunching under his slippers, and he chuckles. </p><p>“Will you sleep in my bed now?”  </p><p>You let out a laugh.<em> Of course</em>, he’s pissed off you refused him before. He cleans you both with one of the towels and mumbles something about the overall mess tomorrow. He pulls his shirt over his head, and holds it out for you to wear. You do and his back is to you right away. He directs you to his bedroom, leaving you no time to look around the space as he turns the lights off and leads you to his bed.  </p><p>After using his bathroom, you jump into the bed, glad to see he didn’t bother to wear something else. He pulls you into his arms at once, kisses the top of your head and murmurs sweet words that make you blush. Falling asleep is easy wrapped up in his warm embrace. </p><p>- </p><p>It’s early morning when you’re stirred gently awake by movement. Your grin is wide when the first thing you see is Hotch buttoning the cuffs of his button-up.   </p><p>“Hey” you whisper, and he turns, giving you a small smile. “I think last night was the least sleep I’ve done in my life, but <em>also</em> the most comfortable one.” </p><p>He finishes, and you see the phone in his hands.  </p><p>Your father flashes in your head and you sit up at once. “Did my father-” </p><p>“Yes” he says right away. “He was caught an hour ago.” </p><p>You don’t rejoice yet, not without knowing all the details. </p><p>At the worried look on your face, he adds: “There’s no other victim. It’s over.” </p><p>Overwhelming relief washes over you, and you drop back against the pillows.  </p><p>“I want to cry” you say, more to yourself than to him. “I’ve never been happier in my life.” </p><p>Hotch goes silent. The entire room does, and you look up. His eyebrows are furrowed and the look in his eyes is intense. </p><p>“I haven’t been honest with you” he says then, making you stop breathing altogether. </p><p><em> God – what is it? Your father? His son? His ex-wife?  </em> </p><p>“Did he – is there something else? Did he kill someone? Aaron, I...” </p><p>He shakes his head and comes to sit down beside you on the bed, clasps your hands and pulls them over his lap.  </p><p>“I want you” he says, words pouring out of his mouth like they’re escaping him. “I want <em>this</em>, and I should have told you about it yesterday before we...” </p><p>That same tortured look he’d had when he talked about Elle and Spencer is back, and you recognize something else too that you know lives inside you too – the same way it had when you’d bore the secret of killing Nathan. </p><p>“Whatever it is, it’s okay” you whisper softly. And it can’t be worse than you murdering your husband, at least. </p><p>Instead of answering you, he unbuttons his shirt slowly, not meeting your eyes. Your gaze falls on the nine flesh-colored scars over his torso, deep and jarring. Your eyes widen in horror. </p><p>“Oh my God. What –?” </p><p>- </p><p>Hotch tells you everything – about Shaughnessy, about tracking down the Reaper when he was a young profiler, and about the deal. About both deals. He tells you about the murdered couples on highways, the growing brutality of the murders, and the change in targets. Knowing that if anyone could digest it all without faltering – it would be you. Because you’ve witnessed so much. Lastly, he talks about waking up in the hospital, with a torn piece of paper from his contact list where Haley’s address should be instead. You finally understand everything – the drinking, the alarm system, his paranoia and even the lack of kid's toys around his living quarters.  </p><p>--- </p><p>Foyet is still around, so that’s why when you leave his apartment in the early morning the sun is not yet out. You keep out of the public eye, and decide to take that trip Therese had been convincing you to take, texting her right away that Holland sounds nice. </p><p>You’re in a daze and almost in disbelief, but at least your heart is not broken this time. </p><p>Because your goodbyes had been genuine and a future promise. </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry for dragging you into this. I was -” </p><p>You kiss him, interrupting his apology. “<em>Selfish,</em> I know.” </p><p>Hotch shakes his head. “No. Reckless and fucking dangerous” </p><p>You bite your lip and laugh. “Sorry” you breathe out. “It’s just... you swearing is a <em>thing </em> apparently.” </p><p>The corner of his lips pulls up in a tiny smile.  </p><p>“I’ll be fine” you say, “I’ve lived through my father wanting me dead” you raise a hand, counting down with your fingers. “then my husband wanting me dead. Then his entire family wanting to get rid of me – jail or otherwise. I lived through my former mother-in-law kidnapping and <em> you know</em>, wanting me dead.” </p><p>He scoffs. </p><p>“And<em> again</em> – my father wanting me dead.”  </p><p>You squeeze his hand. “I don’t mind another serial killer, Aaron. At this point, it’s become my fucking life.” </p><p>There’s no amusement in his features even though you’d said it as a joke. </p><p>“I’m going to be fine. Just catch this guy, and save your family.” </p><p>You hold your tongue because the words <em>I’ll wait for you </em>are ready to escape from your mouth. </p><p>“I love you” he says, narrowing the distance to kiss you, short and sweet. </p><p>A million butterflies take flight inside your chest. “I love you” you say on the same breath. </p><p>He holds you for a few minutes, both of you unsure and scared about the other, but not knowing what to do with the uncertainty of the future ahead. </p><p>“I thought the world was black and white” he murmurs, his chin resting atop your head, “This man,” he lets out. “I just know I’ll kill him if he touches them.” </p><p>You suck in a breath, understanding at last his half-admission at understanding you killing Nathan. </p><p>“<em>Or you.</em>”  </p><p>And then he lets you go.  </p><p>----- </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks as always for reading!!💕💕💕<br/>as alwaysss lemme know what you think!!</p><p>(the idea to include Foyet in this was always there because Hotch has such a strong unwavering moral compass that him accepting someone killing someone, even for the reasons y/n did it seems in my head, unacceptable. And the only version of hotch who'd accept it and fully understand the actions is post-foyet Hotch. Hence, this chapter.<br/>ALSO DONT HATE ME, lmao. I honestly thought to conclude the story here bcs:<br/>a. i do like bittersweet and heart-wrenching endings, though with a hopeful note where the reader derives their own conclusions<br/>b. bcs apparently i cant write this story without putting a murder in there for some reason lmao (and i think these characters deserve a break at last)</p><p>BUT! id love to hear what you guys think about this, and if i should just put that mark up that signifies the story is done. Or if you'd want more?<br/>or idk, some kind of HAPPIER wrap-up (epilogue, or sth of some sorts), albeit short, of the story (so y'all don't hate me too much lol)</p><p>EDIT: yes maybe a short epilogue would be nice</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Years along, you've made yourself a family with Hotch, Jack, and the rest of your friends and his team.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey all ! we are here ! the end of it all !<br/>And my (lousy - though i hope not) attempt at writing fluff, just v cute interactions with everyone!<br/>and yes Jack's first appearance lmao!</p><p>Today's theme: love is in the air (as are hormones! Lmao)</p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bells over the door ringing signals the arrival of new clients, even though you’re closed – but it doesn’t stop as they pour in one by one, in the only way they know how: raucous and talking over one another. You smile to yourself, finishing up the books over the counter. The entire BAU team, sans Hotch, take their usual booth in the corner, not caring to stop at the reception for an order or to ask about a free table. It’s become a habit that even the new waiters now have learned to ignore and welcome. </p><p>“You can head home. Have a great weekend” You nod at Larissa and take her notebook to get their order as soon as you see them all sitting down. </p><p>Dave looks up, granting you a smile as you approach. </p><p>“Hey all”  </p><p>Derek and Spencer stop bickering long enough to greet you as well. </p><p>“How was Alaska?” </p><p>Penelope hugs her arms around herself. “Cold as an icicle. I’ve never been happier to leave a place in my life.” </p><p>You chuckle and throw her an amused look. “Was it <em>all </em>bad though? I heard something about room-sharing…?” </p><p>She peers at you over her eyeglasses. “Okay. Maybe not <em>all</em> bad” she says glancing quickly at Derek, who in turn circles an arm around her shoulders. </p><p>“But still, would not recommend” </p><p>Emily and JJ nod in agreement.  </p><p>Dave takes the small notebook from your hands, already knowing what everyone’s going to order and scribbling it down neatly.  </p><p>You shoot him a smile as Penelope starts describing the small town and hotel they’d been at. You’re half paying attention – Hotch had already relayed you details over the phone – and you also try subtly to roam your eyes around and out the window, trying to gather where he’s at. </p><p>“I want a large plate of fries, Rossi” Derek says, straightening up and looking over the other man’s shoulder. </p><p>“Yes. I know” Dave says flatly, “I’ve heard you talk about fries for 4 hours, remember?” </p><p>“Cheese sticks too?”  </p><p>At his serious face, Derek grins, “please?” </p><p>Dave huffs, “okay fine. But for once, I’d want to see you eat actual food and not this junk. The whole wheat pasta with mushroom sauce they make is delicious” </p><p>Derek doesn’t budge, just continues looking at his notes to make sure he’s not changing anything. </p><p>“Or the lasagna?” Dave continues, “Chicken tetrazzini?” </p><p>“I want a large cheeseburger, man. Why do you want to deprive me of my cheeseburger?” </p><p>Dave turns to look at you, pleading with his eyes for you to jump in.  </p><p>You let out a laugh but still take his side.  </p><p>“You’re getting too used to ordering out of the menu, Derek” </p><p>He simply smiles. </p><p>“This is becoming a dangerous habit and I will tell Serene to not allow it any longer.” </p><p>“That’s bogus” he says, “I know she loves me – especially when I send my compliments to her.” </p><p>Penelope elbows his side – not unkindly, but because Derek’s gotten very close to the old Italian woman Kai had hired a while back as a chef. She’ll indulge him on everything – preparing every food he requests or desires. Even when she’s out of ingredients. You can’t count on your fingers the number of times she’d sent out one of the young waiters to buy something only because Derek asked for it in the restaurant. </p><p>“And you know you’re eating for free here, right? Do I need to remind you of that?” you tease. </p><p>The others laugh, and you look outside again, noticing<em> he’s</em> still not here. Dave catches you staring this time. </p><p>“I think we bring customers.” Derek rebuts. “Technically, we are the advertisement.” </p><p>You lean in and you <em>know</em> Hotch’s not around but you can never be too sure. </p><p>“Don’t act like an entitled asshole.” You say playfully, “I will tell Serene of your words and we’ll see what she says.” </p><p>You straighten up but this time you feel someone right behind you. </p><p>“I heard that”<em> his</em> familiar voice says, sternly. </p><p>Your heart jumps in your chest – from being surprised and from the excitement of finally having him back.  </p><p>His hand cups your shoulder, squeezing lightly over the naked patch of skin revealed from your pullover.  </p><p>“That’s five dollars in the jar for when we get back” Hotch says, face still attempting to remain serious, even as the corner of his lips tilts up. </p><p>You scoff. “Jack isn’t around. There’s no harm” </p><p>He narrows the distance, keeping his eyes locked on yours, his hand on your shoulder gripping you tight, spreading warmth to the rest of your body. “Five” he commands. “Bucks” </p><p>You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile building up in your face. The heat of his body and his smell give you a rush of electricity and it takes everything in you to not launch yourself in his arms. </p><p>“No.” you retort, holding your ground, hands over your hips. “I was at a safe distance and I’m telling you I’m not paying for –“ you reach up in your tip toes, your cheek brushing against the rough stubble of his, and you hear him suck a breath – but you don’t falter.  </p><p>“Shit” you finish. </p><p>When you lean back, there’s a familiar look in his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something but before he can, little feet paddle across the floor, and come barreling against his legs. </p><p>“Daddy!” Jack chirps, and Hotch’s eyebrows go up, still holding your gaze. </p><p>“Safe distance, huh?” </p><p>You watch him pick up Jack, hug him tight and leave a thousand kisses over his little head and cheeks.  </p><p>His voice changes to the reassuring, gentle one you’ve come to note belongs to his son – and you too, now. “Ah, I’ve missed you so much, buddy. How was your day?” </p><p>Hotch keeps Jack in his arms as he steps away from the table. The boy starts talking animatedly, but Hotch gives you no leeway. He looks at you over his shoulder and mouths, “It’s not over.” </p><p>You smile to yourself, cheeks heating up already just from that simple interaction. </p><p>When you turn your attention to the table Emily and JJ stare at you with similar, amused looks. </p><p>“What?” you ask, blushing deeper.  </p><p>“Nothing, just thinking about what the chef recommends after a long trip out of the country…?” Emily taunts.  </p><p>You strain your brain trying to remember today’s menu, but you come up short. Your eyes go to Hotch and Jack on the other side of the restaurant, talking to your friend, Kai, and his son.  </p><p>“What would <em>you</em>?”  </p><p>“Hm?” </p><p>Hotch laughs at something, the high-pitch of his chuckle audible even from here. </p><p>“I think I’d skip dinner right away” JJ chimes in, voice low. </p><p>He brushes off Jack’s shoulders, and crouches before him to fix his hair and the shirt that’s ridden up from his run. </p><p>“Oh, definitely” Emily continues. “I’d go straight to <em>desert</em>.” </p><p>Hotch’s wearing a brown quarter-zip and it’s form-fitting to his large shoulders and his athletic body – as are the black slacks he dons. He straightens up, catching your eyes, granting you a small smile before saying something to Kai. </p><p>“Mhm” JJ nods “not even wait to get home but head behind the counter.” </p><p>You register her words only because Hotch leans against it with a hand, pulling his body taut. His statuesque frame makes your mouth go dry. </p><p>“Or directly to a supply closet” Emily adds, “Don’t you agree, ____?” </p><p>Hotch glances at you again, this time mirroring the heated look in your eyes even with the distance. </p><p>“<em>God, yes”  </em>you let out. </p><p>The girls laugh and it shakes you out of your trance. “What?” </p><p>Penelope giggles. “Your ears are red, doll face” </p><p>You huff out, feigning ignorance and naiveté, letting their mocks dissipate. </p><p>“I have to call Will” JJ says, standing up, “He said he’s on his way with Henry but I doubt they’ve eaten anything.” </p><p>You watch her go and lean against the booth as Spencer and Emily start a heated discussion over foreign movies.  </p><p>“What’s the money for?” Penelope asks, wondering about what Hotch mentioned earlier. </p><p>You snort. “A swear jar. Apparently I swear a lot and although I don’t do it around Jack-“  </p><p>When you look to that same corner again, Hotch’s not there anymore. Only Jack who continues playing with Legos with Kai’s son, in another booth nearby. </p><p>“Aaron insists that I still swear a lot. I don’t think I do” </p><p>Derek laughs. “Well, how much money have you gathered until now?” </p><p>You shake your head, refusing to answer.  </p><p>“I haven’t counted, because it’s so little.” You lie. </p><p>Penelope throws you a questioning look, not believing your words. </p><p>In truth the coins had turned into bills – Hotch’s attempt to restrain your cursing around the house and Jack – and the jar had been switched for another empty one, already half full. </p><p>“I can’t tell, really.” You turn to Rossi. “Have you ever heard me swear?” </p><p>“Never” he says, lying for you. “I’ve only ever heard sweet words.” </p><p>“That’s right.” Derek and Penelope don’t look at all convinced.  </p><p>“All good, Dave?” </p><p>He nods, holding out the notebook. But he snatches it away when you reach for it. </p><p>“On a second thought – I’ll take this straight to the kitchen. Wanted to ask Serene about her last shipment of truffles.” </p><p>“Suure” Derek and Penelope say at once. </p><p>Dave stands, throwing you all reprimanding looks. </p><p>“I never swear” you repeat again to Derek and Penelope, but they both ignore you.  </p><p>“Damn it!” you hear Jack yell from his corner once a dew Legos fall to the ground.  </p><p>“Fuck“ you mutter under your breath, hoping Hotch isn’t around to have heard that. </p><p>It’s for naught. </p><p>“So, <em>you </em>don’t swear? Then what did I hear Jack say?” You whip around, meeting his harsh gaze.  </p><p>You get defensive at once, backpedaling. “Could have been Kai.”  </p><p>Hotch cocks an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest.  </p><p>“Kai has never cursed once in his life.” </p><p>“Pfft, as if!” you take another step back when he takes another towards you, both of you slowly leaving the table. Damn him and knowing every single of your friends. You can't even lie and blame it to someone else.</p><p>“What will I do with that foul mouth of yours?” he mutters, dark eyes falling to your lips. </p><p>His gaze is unrelenting, knowing you’ll give out any moment now. Especially if he gets close enough to tower over you. </p><p>But you don’t yield yet.  </p><p>“You don’t know what goes on in their house. All we know is that he and Clara could be teaching those same words to his son. And worse!” </p><p>“And, you didn’t teach him to stick his fists out either?” </p><p>Your eyebrows go up, not really having an excuse for that. So, what if you’d taught that sweet child to know the basics? It’s not like he would even hurt a fly. Not even a spider. Not when he begged you to catch one last week and pleaded you set the creature free in the yard to return to its habitat. Like Jack is going to start fighting or turn around and bully just because you taught him a few things. He only ever learned them because he thought they were dance moves. After everything both of them had gone through, you feel you've grown more protective and wanting to teach him self-defense hadn't been a bad idea at the time. Hell, even teaching him to properly fight - but you don't tell Hotch that. Yet. </p><p>“No, uh – it’s a dance…?” You offer to Hotch, who still looks skeptical. </p><p>“And he’s too pure…” you go on, looking at Jack in the corner, laughing happily at his friend.  </p><p>“I’m j-just…uh”  </p><p>He’s too sweet, too small and cute and his heart is so big and accepting and...</p><p>It's only at this moment that to realize you love the kid with a certain fierceness. You don’t know what you’ll do if something or someone ever harms him. </p><p>“I’m just worried and… scared for him” </p><p>Suddenly, without warning, Hotch’s hand is on the back of your neck, wrapping around possessively and he twists your head to his, and crushes his lips to yours. He kisses you with bruising force, sending you tumbling backwards. Amongst other things, you loving his son and caring for him this much surprises him every single time. And he feels blessed and taken by you, more and more.</p><p>You react on instinct – arms circling his neck and pull him closer to you. The rushed movement sends your back against the counter as you both deepen the kiss at once. His hand that was a second ago on your waist lands on the counter behind you to hold both your bodies up, so he doesn’t crush you under his weight.  </p><p>A moan escapes you as his hand on your neck squeezes lightly. There’s another bell ring over the door and more voices and you both realize you’re still in public. Even though you’re quite a bit far from the table and Jack’s booth that’s on the other side of the restaurant. He parts away but you follow even as he straightens up - licking and nibbling his lips - because you’re not ready to separate yet. </p><p>His free hand grips your hip.</p><p>“Honey…” he protests but his voice is still husky, still low. His mouth still attached to yours, albeit he continues with short, slow kisses that render you breathless. </p><p>“Later” he drawls and his hand on your neck turns to cup your cheek.  </p><p>“Mhmm” you hum in agreement, eyes still fluttered closed. But neither of you make an attempt to get out of the small bubble you created yet, savoring it for a few more seconds. </p><p>Someone calls your name and Hotch lets you go, taking a step back. He clears his throat as he watches the person who called you approach you both. </p><p>It’s JJ.  </p><p>She grins at Hotch’s flushed cheeks but the latter can’t look at either of you. </p><p>“Do you guys still make that aranciata from last time?” </p><p>You’re the only one who continues as normal. “Oh, yeah. Let me get it in the back.” </p><p>Hotch gives you one last sheepish smile, and goes back to the booth, that’s now louder with the addition of Will and Henry. </p><p>When you’re on the other side of the counter, JJ gives you a victorious look.  </p><p>“Should have said in front of the counter and I would have won the bet.” </p><p>“Bet?” </p><p>"We were betting about the place but now we might switch it up to how long it takes you"</p><p>She shrugs and goes back to the table, leaving you perplexed. Hotch and your shenanigans are becoming a habit.</p><p>God, and to think Hotch was the more reserved first - now he's the one who can't keep his hands off, especially in public.</p><p>You push open the doors of the industrial kitchen but you get out immediately, closing your eyes. </p><p>“Jesus,<em> fuck</em>. Dave!” </p><p>There’s giggles and then pots and pans falling to the floor. Then he comes out, still buttoning up his shirt. </p><p>“We have kids here!” you yell, like you weren’t about to start the same thing a second ago with Hotch. In public too. Or like you haven’t finished what you’d caught both of them start to do, countless times before. And whenever you’re the one closing for the night. </p><p>You hold a door open with one hand. “Serene, I better have this place sterilized or I swear to God, Kai’s going to fire you and me both!” </p><p>She nods, buttoning up her chef’s uniform. </p><p>You glance at Rossi, who looks ready to run away.  </p><p>“Oh, no way, mister. You’re the one sterilizing that place. Come on, I’ll get you all the cleaning supplies right now.” </p><p>You glare at him, daring him to oppose or argue. He doesn’t. </p><p>“That’s what I thought.” You push through the doors, Rossi following suit, head lowered in shame. You do your best Kai impression – a.k.a giving orders like a sergeant and yelling. “Now, I have kids out there who eat more than all three of us combined. And an adult male who’s raised on nothing but junk food. Come on! Chop chop!” </p><p>You take out the cleaning supplies and dump them on Rossi’s arms.  </p><p>“If this place isn’t clean and shining like a fucking diamond ring in 10 minutes –“ you snap, pointing a finger at his face “I will have your head in a spear. Do you understand me?” </p><p>He nods. “Yes, ma’am” </p><p>You narrow your eyes at Serene. “If he ever so touches you while in here, you shout okay?” </p><p>She stifles a laugh at your words knowing you’re only half serious. </p><p>“Okay. Good. Now, get to work” </p><p>“Yes, ma’am” they recite at the same time.  </p><p>“God, she’s scary” Serene whispers as you make your way out of the kitchen.  </p><p>“She reminds me of Aaron day by day” Dave whispers back. </p><p><em> As if </em>– you’re the one who taught <em>him </em>a thing or two. </p><p>Only when you’re out and to the table, now fully packed with everyone, do you let out a laugh. </p><p>Hotch pulls you into his arms right away once you sit down, and Jack shifts from his lap to yours.  </p><p>“Can I have chocolate waffles again tonight?” he asks, looking up at you.  </p><p>You blush, feeling Hotch’s watchful eyes on you. </p><p>The little kid is trying to get you in trouble – now also with the admission that you’re giving him sweets. You hope Hotch hasn’t heard it. Of course not. </p><p>“Are you eating waffles for dinner?” Hotch asks, leaning close.  </p><p>Jack giggles, shaking his head as he looks at you. </p><p><em> Oh Jesus</em> – now it’s thing number four, after teaching him how to lie too. </p><p>“We might have been eating waffles some nights” you admit. “right, buddy?” </p><p>Jack nods, “Yes,<em> sometimes</em>” </p><p>“How many?” Hotch doesn’t relent. You lean back but he drags you to his side, his arm circling your shoulder and looping over your front. </p><p>Jack holds up three fingers and giggles again. </p><p>“But we made a pact-“ you jump in, before you end up being the one getting grounded tonight. “what did we say, Jack?” </p><p>You hope to God he remembers the little rhyme.  </p><p>“For every sweet a vegetable. For every waffle a broccoli head.” </p><p>“Wow” Hotch says, impressed. “How many broccoli heads do we get tonight then?” </p><p>You are ready to argue knowing his game. </p><p>“Five!” Jack jumps up, “I will eat five!” </p><p>“Oh my God” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. The kid will never end up learning how to lie or fight – no matter how much you try to teach him. It’s just not in his nature.  </p><p>“Come on, just lay it on me” you whisper to Hotch, “You caught me red-handed. What do I have to do?” </p><p>He reaches for a glass of water over the table, expression unreadable. He drinks a sip, then looks back at you.  </p><p>“Oh, I’ll figure it out.” </p><p>The words make you heat up again – and he <em>knows </em>they would have, because he arches an eyebrow, giving you that <em>look</em> that makes your knees buckle. </p><p>Jack hops off your lap, deciding to go around the table and sit next to his small friends.  </p><p>The smell of food wafts through the space minutes later, and amongst the chitter chatter of the table nobody notices Rossi missing. That is until he comes out, with an apron around him, carrying plates. </p><p>Everyone<em> aahs </em>and cheers.  </p><p>“Wow, did you start working for her?” Derek asks, looking at you. </p><p>Kai shakes his head, laughing.  </p><p>“I’m not paying your salary” </p><p>“That’s okay” Dave says, leaving the cooked dishes in front of Emily, JJ and Spencer. “It was only because of nostalgia. I used to work as a waiter back in my twenties.” </p><p>He shoots you a look and you laugh harder than the others. He’s trying to get in your good graces. You all watch him head back.  </p><p>Hotch waits, knowing you’re holding back the truth. </p><p>“Actually,” you look around, trying to come up with the appropriate words to say with the small children around. </p><p>“Dave is <em>working </em>for Serene.” You emphasize the word and everyone lets out gasps of surprise and understanding.  </p><p>The food is delicious and the company is entertaining. But everyone is beat and once the dinner is done they start leaving one by one. First is JJ’s family, who bids you goodbye with hugs and promises for playdates on weekends for Jack and Henry. Then the troublesome kids: Spencer, Emily and Derek. Though you doubt the last two will head straight home. Not when Penelope joins them and even asks you to go out for drinks right away.  </p><p>The restaurant is cozy, quiet and warm. Kai is showing a trick of assembling Lego toys to Jack and his son. And Dave and Serene linger outside the exit doors of the restaurant. Hotch is by your side, both of you in that same position, having not moved from the booth.  </p><p>Your hands are clasped around his arm over your front, your head resting again his chest and shoulder. Your eyes go from Jack to Dave – who’s still talking to Serene at a respectable distance. </p><p>Hotch’s breathing underneath you renders you calm, and his thumb brushing lazy patterns over your hip makes your eyes flutter closed.  </p><p>“How was your flight?” you ask, voice drowsy with sleep. </p><p>“Tiring” he says, the rumble against his chest making you settle back closer.  </p><p>“I’ll sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow”  </p><p>“So you're saying that…” you look at Jack again – it’s a bit past his bed time but it’s Friday and it’s nice to watch him play and celebrate his dad’s arrivals loudly like this night. You have a small theory you don’t state aloud – that Jack seeing Hotch around his friends, cheering and laughing will get him to associate his father only with loud celebrations and not his serious and scary job.  </p><p>“We should keep you away from pillows, then?” </p><p>Hotch chuckles. He brushes a lazy kiss over your temple and you squeeze his hand.  </p><p>“You think she’s going to be wife number four?” you ask nodding towards the couple outside.  </p><p>“Or am I still on the run?” </p><p>After learning that once upon a time the guys thought Rossi wanted to marry you, you’d rubbed it in Hotch’s face almost every day. And it was all because he seemed to get strangely jealous – and it was strangely hot. He laughs, squeezing you closer to him.</p><p>“Sorry, honey. You’ve been officially out for a long time” He murmurs, knowing already what your words want to achieve. </p><p>You decide to ask him later what <em>a long time </em>means – has Rossi been dating your chef for longer? </p><p>“I've been thinking.” </p><p>Jack laughs at something but this time it’s softer, lower. His battery is about to run out too. Soon he’ll be ready to leave. And whenever he’s tired or sleepy he wraps himself around your arms most of the times, not Hotch’s. Maybe it’s why you like these nights this much too. </p><p>“I think we should try for one” </p><p>Hotch below you sucks in a breath. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>You twist around a bit, showing him what you’re looking at – Jack and Kai’s son. </p><p>He holds your gaze, not smiling or frowning. His face is neutral, waiting patiently for your cue or you to continue.  </p><p><em> God </em>– you want to kiss him again.  </p><p>He never hurries. Never pushes. Or comments on something that’ll leave you wondering. He studies your face, then breaks out into a brilliant smile. </p><p>“<em>Of course” </em> he lets out, his muscles relaxing.  </p><p>“What?” you push him softly with your shoulder. “What do you mean by ‘of course’?” </p><p>“Trying” He says. </p><p>You scoff – <em>Jesus</em>, he knows you too much. Like an open book. </p><p>“You want kids?” he asks, although he already knows the answer. </p><p>You chuckle. “I <em>like </em>trying” you correct.  </p><p>Hotch laughs, and leans close, nuzzling his head between your shoulder and neck. </p><p>“You’re killing me” he whispers, deep breath over your ear making you shiver. He kisses the spot below your ear, and between your shoulder and neck and straightens up again. </p><p>“Come on” you say, pulling him up.  </p><p>Jack looks up, seeing you both come close. He raises his arms to you and you scoop him up, hugging him tight. </p><p>“Ready to close?” Hotch asks Kai. </p><p>“Yes” the other man says. You hold Kai’s son’s hand in your free one, as Hotch helps Kai close and lock up. You follow him to his car, saying goodbye to them both.  </p><p>And by the time you’re in Hotch’s SUV, Jack is already fast asleep in your arms.  </p><p>“Sorry. I know I'm spoiling him but I can't help it.” You say in a soft low voice after securing him in the backseat and Hotch starts the car.  </p><p>He shakes his head. “You’re not. I simply enjoy teasing you. And I’m envious because he seems to like you more than me” </p><p>“Never.” You say with conviction, “He adores you”  </p><p>The car stops before red lights and you lean across the console to kiss his cheek. Every contact, every look of his - even being in the same room, makes your heart beat louder and brings you comfort.  </p><p>“<em>As do I </em>” </p><p>Back in your seat, Hotch keeps a hand clasped around yours over your thigh as you all head back home. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Im so so glad you all stuck around long enough to read the stuff i wrote!<br/>I value all the feedback and the love especially bcs this platform has been the one moment and first time where i published my (creative??) writing! and ive honestly noticed my writing get better thru time, so it was a v nice trial for me.</p><p>this story was honestly v fun to write. i never went into this with a plan on what the story was gonna turn out to be (or if she was gonna be a murderess!!! but somehow it all ended up making sense - and theres been a lot of foreshadowing in the beginning which ended making sense in the end (im not bragging just impressed stuff tied up bcs it felt totally out of my hands lol!)</p><p>also i loved loved writing absolutely unhinged women villains - Lucille, Maria too, and even the main character in her own way. it was so great writing women being batshit nuts lmao</p><p>also bcs being in lockdown and the era we are all in apparently, it has been v good escapism lol<br/>love you all!!! and reading your comments have made my heart grow.!! i appreciate it all!!</p><p>(also pls if u ever wanna keep in touch pls i have tumblr: rivierasunsetdiner and twitt: angelfxll - but not much cm content as id like lol)</p><p>(And hey i still have two other stories: friends to lovers (titled say it), hotchxreader ofc (after some few alterations)- and wasteland (friends to enemies to lovers) so if either is ur mojo - u can find them on my account here! )</p><p>you know the gist:<br/>thanks as always for reading!!💕💕💕<br/>as alwaysss lemme know what you think!! (especially if it sucked!! lol)</p>
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